


The Snake That Was Struck By Lightning

by child_of_the_viper



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:49:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29654334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/child_of_the_viper/pseuds/child_of_the_viper
Summary: Magnus, an Original Female Character, lives in the Harry Potter universe and must navigate the dangers around her, including Voldemort and his inner circle. After killing her father, Dumbledore, to save Draco, she is taken to Malfoy Manor and faced with dangers beyond her imagining. Finding solace in the company of Death Eaters, rejected by her old friends, Magnus is torn between two worlds. Which one will she choose, and can she survive long enough to win the war?(Also Wolfstar is a thing and neither Remus nor Sirius die because I hate JK for doing that)SO MUCH ANGST!!! Trigger warning for the elements of rape/non-con, as well as self harm, abuse, torture and manipulation.I've switched up the chronology a tad, so Voldemort retrieves the Elder Wand at the start of Deathly Hallows Part 1, not 2. (I'll adapt the events to fit the new narrative.)
Relationships: Lucius Malfoy/Original Female Character(s), Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, Tom Riddle | Voldemort/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 4





	1. The Execution

The Execution

The familiar sight of a dilapidated castle shivered into view, misted over with sea spray and Scottish fog. Gripping his wand tighter, claw-like hands almost strangling the shrivelled wood in anticipation of this long-awaited victory, Voldemort ghosted towards the island that jutted out in the middle of the lake. It was as if the black waters had sucked the life out of Hogwarts, or perhaps it was the imposing marble tomb that rested on the shore. This was his destination.

As he neared the crypt, Voldemort could see a winged figure hunched over the stone, as if Dumbledore’s death had frozen her into a statue that was doomed to guard his grave for all eternity. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth; so she had waited for him. Good.

The breeze signalled his arrival, the deadly silence that accompanied him wherever he went wrapped itself around the island, forcing the gentle sound of the waves lapping at the shore to retreat back to the castle. She knew he was there, but did not rise to greet him, remaining kneeling by her father’s tomb, like a sentry sent to warn him of danger. But this time, she was the danger, she was her father’s undoing.

“I’m scared.” she whispered. Not to anyone in particular, perhaps she was hoping that the marble itself would answer her, providing her with the answers her father never could. She had no idea how Voldemort would react, especially since she had defied his orders and Bellatrix had revealed that it was her, and not Draco, who had killed Dumbledore. Fear was a paralytic, and she could not move.

The crunch of sand greeted her and she counted the steps, beginning to shiver slightly when they stopped a few metres from the grave, wincing when he began to speak.

“Come here.”

His voice was just as she remembered, or did she remember it? It had become harder and harder to distinguish between his presence in her dreams and the faded memories of him in her father’s pensieve. It was like nails on a chalkboard, grating along her spine, curling around her throat and draining the strength from her already weakened body.

She had been waiting here for two days, barely moving. Waiting for him. For her execution.

Not daring to make him wait, she pushed herself onto her feet, wings dragging behind her as she stumbled towards his cloaked figure. She halted just in front of him and knelt, as he had always instructed her to, and the shaking got worse.

He noticed that her head was bowed and she wouldn’t meet his eyes. At least she had obeyed him, although he was almost hoping she would refuse, just so he could have the excuse to hurt her again. He delighted when she fought back, it made breaking her so much more enjoyable, and she was so beautiful when she wept.

“Look at me.”

Trembling, she finally met his gaze, but instead of the cold eyes she was so used to, instead of the glare and flash of green light that she was dreading, she was met with something close to warmth. If there was any emotion left in Voldemort, she had not expected it to be pride.

Suddenly, his hand was on her cheek, gently brushing away the tears she hadn't noticed were falling down her face. It was the closest thing to a wash she’d had in days.

“Good girl.”

She prayed that the shock on her face wasn’t palpable. He could probably smell her confusion anyway.

“You've done well, my dear. Now, I require one last service before we return to the Manor.”

“Yes, my lord?” Her voice was unrecognisable. Maybe it was the patricide.

“Get me the wand.”

And there it was. Her execution.

The silence was bone crushing. It felt as if her ears had been ripped off and shoved down her throat to clog up her vocal cords.

“Please… please no…” she choked on her words, barely conscious that she was talking at all. It had almost broken her soul to kill her own father, but this was the final, cruel blow. She would not - could not - desecrate his grave.

His eyes narrowed to slits. All the humanity in his face had fled, leaving the snake-like features curled into a grimace. He was enjoying her pain immensely, but he was too practised to show any glee, besides, it was more fun this way.

“My dear, you seem to think you have a choice in this matter. I am not asking for your power, I am taking it.”

But she would not bend to his will. If this was to be her final act of defiance, then she would make it a good one. Tearing her eyes away from his face, away from his soulless eyes, she shook her head and gathered her strength. A low rumble of thunder signalled to Voldemort that she was summoning her power, preparing to strike, to flee, to defy him, and this he would not stand for.

With the speed of a viper, for in that moment he was entirely serpentine, his hand lashed out and curled around her throat, hoisting her into the air as if she weighed no more than a mouse. A strangled gasp escaped her mouth as she clawed at the air, even as she fought for her life she was too afraid to touch him, to grasp his wrist and relieve the burning pressure of his grip. The air around them seemed to freeze, the wind dropped entirely and the waves themselves appeared to hold their breath in anticipation of what would happen next.

They were to be disappointed. The girl had no fight left in her and was reduced to begging, begging for him to release her, begging for what was left of her life.

“Please, my lord, please-”

His grip on her windpipe tightened, ensuring that she could not raise her power against him, as he drew her closer to him; with almost loving tenderness he brushed the hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear.

“You will not refuse me,” he whispered, “you will retrieve the wand or I shall make all of this look like a pleasant dream. Only pain and death awaits should you attempt to defy me again.”

Her eyes rolled back in her head as she struggled for air, arms limp at her side, flightless wings drooping in the mud.

“Do you understand?”

Wheezing, choking on her words, she mustered the strength to reply. 

“...Yes, m-my lord…”

“Good girl.”

She remembered him saying that before. There was a time when she would have slaughtered entire armies to hear those words, desperate for his approval. Now, any praise he gave her was another mocking reminder of her failures, of how easily she gave in to him. But, of course, that was what he wanted.

She was on the ground. How did she get here, lying in a heap at the mercy of the most dangerous dark wizard that the world had known?

But at least her lungs were clear and she sucked in air with reckless abandon before struggling to her feet. She had been almost blinded by tears so she must have run out by now because although she was in agony, her eyes were dry. 

A sudden spike of pain in her shoulder accompanied with a crackle of red light and a muttered word reminded her of the task ahead. Oddly, the cruciatus curse held little power over her now. Nothing could compare with the sight of her father’s face as she threw him off the Astronomy Tower, open and hopeless, full of regret and sorrow.

The sky opened as power rushed to her fingertips, bracing herself for the inevitable loss of strength that always came with using her gift, she summoned the force of the storm, just as Voldemort had taught her. A colossal crash of thunder boomed across the island as lighting struck the tomb, a pillar of light that illuminated the struggling waters and almost banished the night.

The tomb was open.

He loved it when she used her power, the wave of euphoria at breaking her spirit rushed over him and he forced down a grin. She must not know how pleased he was with her, better to keep his slaves obedient in fear, rather than allowing them hope.

Savouring the moment, he stepped around her shaking body, careful to avoid crushing her wings under his feet. As if in a trance, he walked towards the now open crypt, the stench of decay making him flatten his nostrils and grimace. Even in death, Dumbledore was causing a nuisance.

He lowered his head, staring at the face of the man he had considered his greatest threat, the only one who could resist his power. And now he had caused his death and corrupted his only child, he controlled his beloved school and was now poised to take over the entire wizarding world. Victory. It tasted like lightning.

Through hooded eyelids, she watched him extract the wand, gently, as if he wanted to draw out every second into a minute. At least he hadn’t ordered her to retrieve the wand herself, she would rather die than look at her father’s corpse. After all, she was the one who put him there, in that box, and she couldn’t even protect him in death. Useless. Useless.

Turning to look at her, a grin stretching out his mouth, he felt the power and might of the Elder Wand flow through his veins. Reckless joy filled him up, and glee danced on his lips. He wanted to share this moment with her, wanted her to see how powerful he had become, wanted to drive a final stake into her heart. She was utterly in his control. Conquering her had been one of the greatest challenges of his life, but now she was finally his. Lightning.

Driving the wand into the night air, a bolt of white light burst from the wood and scorched the sky, obliterating the clouds that had gathered to watch the storm. Voldemort would have howled with glee, but he settled on a display of power that rivalled any before. The Elder Wand was his, and he was untouchable.


	2. Malfoy Manor

Malfoy Manor

“Magnus.”

She shivered away from the voice that broke through her dream. The darkness that enveloped her was comforting, and she wasn’t sure that the waking world would be kind to her.

“Magnus. Wake up.”

If she could have spoken she would have told the voice to leave her alone, to let her lie in the darkness forever. All she could muster, however, was a slight moan of annoyance. Why was her throat so dry, she wondered. She knew the memories would hit her soon, but in sleep she was ignorant and innocent. Innocence was what she truly craved.

“For Merlin’s sake, girl, wake up before the Dark Lord gets back and hauls you out of bed by the throat.”

The Dark Lord. Now she remembers.

Blinking in the harsh winter daylight, she was surprised to see her old bedroom in Malfoy Manor where she had slept all those nights ago, needing to escape her father’s nagging. She and Draco had got drunk on butterbeer and laughed like the war didn’t exist. Draco. The brother she never had.

But although the glint of silver hair was familiar, the face that greeted her was not the one she sought. Looming over the bed was the figure of the once-proud Lucius Malfoy, complete with serpentine cane and silver rings.

“That’s better. The sooner you’re awake, the sooner you can get cleaned up and then you can have some food, how does that sound?”

Uncomprehending, she blinked at him, wondering how she ended up in a safe, warm bed. Or the safest one could get during a war. It was even more odd that Lucius was here. Even when she slept over at the Manor, it was usually Narcissa who spoke to her, whereas Lucius mainly kept to his study, occasionally slipping out to berate Draco or curse at the house elves for not making his food correctly, or for a minute speck of dust that no one else could see.

“What…? Where…? How did I get here?”

It hurt to talk. Her throat was tight and painful. If she had looked in a mirror she would have seen five purple bruises on her neck from where Voldemort had almost strangled her. The flesh around the fingerprints was red and angry, and her face was covered in cuts and bruises, as was the rest of her. Reminders of the ferocious battle with Harry that she had only survived because Severus had intervened. The rest of the Death Eaters would have been happy to let her die at the hands of the Boy Who Lived.

“The Dark Lord left you here last night with instructions to look after you until his return.”

Lucius’ voice cut through the thick fog that surrounded her head. He was looking at her like she was going to jump out of bed and attack him at any moment. No, it wasn’t fear in his eyes, but pity. Of course, she had killed her own father, he could only imagine the internal turmoil she was going through. Caught between family and power, and power had won. It always does.

“He’s gone?”

The answer wasn’t the one she wanted, but the one she knew was coming.

“Yes.”

How stupid she had been to think that he would be here, that he would wait for her to awake. Yet it still hurt to think that he had abandoned her so quickly after she had - 

What had she done?

Lucius wasn’t sure how to feel about the girl. She was, after all, Dumbledore’s child. She had a gift for magic unseen in the Wizarding World for millennia and was, of course, immensely powerful. Had Dumbledore managed to keep her on his side, their combined strength would have incinerated the Dark Lord and anyone who stood by his side. However, not only had Voldemort manipulated her over the past few years into joining the Death Eaters, but she had killed her own father to protect Draco from the Dark Lord’s wrath. She was on his side, but he was still wary.

So when Voldemort had left her in his care and flown off to gather his troops, he was unsure how to act. And what made him even more unsure was when she burst into tears and sobbed into his lap at the suggestion that the Dark Lord would leave her at the Manor alone.

Gingerly, he gathered her into his arms and let her weep on his shoulder, hoping that it was the right thing to do. She was shrunken, no doubt left weak after her ordeals over the past week, but as he ran his hand over her skin, trying to comfort her, he felt wiry muscle tighten beneath his touch. He wanted to touch her wings, to stroke the black feathers as if she were one of his owls, but uncertainty stayed his hand. Narcissa would know what to do. He wished she were here.

Magnus - for that was her name - felt a gnawing hunger grow in her belly. Stifling her sobs and trying to calm her shaking body, she gently drew away from Lucius, thankful for his presence, odd though it may be. She was suddenly acutely aware of her nakedness, and gathered her wings around her in an attempt to protect her modesty. Lucius, too, seemed to snap out of the trance he had been in, almost mesmerized by their closeness. He shook himself and then paused, hesitantly brushing a tear from her face. An act of tenderness that would have been comforting had it not reminded her of Voldemort’s touch, the way he had stroked her hair as she dangled from his grasp, gasping for air.  
“I-is there any food? I’m sorry, I’m just really hungry.”

Lucius tore his gaze away from her face and collected himself.

“Yes of course, there’s food in the kitchen. Why don’t you have a bath first and then I’ll bring up some breakfast, unless, of course, you’d prefer to eat downstairs?”

He hoped that was the right thing to say. It seemed to give her new strength and she nodded with renewed vigour.

“Sure, that would be lovely, thank you.”

“Then I shall leave you to it.”

With an uncertain smile, he rose and walked to the door, wishing he could breathe colour back into her cheeks, wishing he could bring back the youthful enthusiasm that had sent her and Draco careening around the Manor, much to the annoyance of the portraits.

“Mr Malfoy?”

He turned to look at her, almost doll-like in the ridiculously oversized bed.

“Please, call me Lucius.”

“Lucius. I’m sorry to ask this, but would you be able to help me to the bathroom? I’m not sure I’ll be able to stand on my own…”

He wished she would stop apologising. Of course he would help her, not least because if he refused and somehow the Dark Lord found out, it would mean more pain for him and more disgrace for his family. At least, that was what he told himself, refusing to admit to the spark of decency that lingered in his breast.

With a curt nod, he set down his cane by the door and walked back over to the bed. Gathering her into his arms, wings and all, he practically marched towards the ensuite. Her room was in the East Wing, so the light here was stronger and the rooms were warmer. The little bathroom jutted out from the rest of the Manor, forming a partial turret. It was almost perfectly circular, with a Victorian bath in the centre, complete with ornate faucets and curved lions feet at the base. Steam was rising from the steel bath, one of the house elves must have had the foresight to heat up the water and fill the tub. For once he was glad of their almost neurotic tendency to predict what the Malfoys would be doing on any given day.

Gently, as if she would break, Lucius set her down on the marbled floor. She clung to his arm with the desperation of one who has had the strength sucked from their body.

“Thank you.”

She mustered a smile, pitiful though it was, and gripped the edge of the bath. Malfoy decadence at its finest, even their bathrooms were larger than her Hogwarts dormitory under the lake.

“Shall I leave you to it? The house elves will bring your clothes and anything else you need for washing…”

He trailed off, catching sight of the full extent of the scars that covered her body. The cuts from last week were of course horrific, but he was shocked by the white lines that criss-crossed her skin. It was like a macabre map of suffering.

“Yes, thank you. You’re being very kind.”

Had she caught him staring? He hoped not, preferring to make his escape with a forced smile and a nod, closing the bedroom door behind him. She noted that he had forgotten his cane, and wished that it would give him an excuse to visit again.

A new challenge stood before her. Surviving in the Inner Circle. A bath would fortify her, and food would give her the strength to face Voldemort again, but she couldn’t help feeling as if the months ahead would bring more pain than anything she had ever experienced before. Shaking off the dread, she slipped into the steaming water and braced herself for the task ahead. A smile tugged at her lips. At least she had the Malfoys.

Once downstairs, Lucius was able to collect his thoughts. He had forgotten what it was like to be in her presence, stifled by the almost hypnotic allure of her mythical wings, and the baffling way that she looked at him. As if he was her saviour, as if he could save her from the Dark Lord. Little did he know that she was hoping he could save her from herself. The Dark Lord was inconsequential when compared to the terror she faced daily, the mirror was her greatest enemy, her reflection knew her too well and it petrified her.

He sunk into his quilted armchair, gazing at the fire, thinking of her. Questions swarmed in his head, and those scars - 

No. It wasn’t his business. Whether Dumbledore or Voldemort had inflicted them upon her, it was not for him to dwell on. He would ask her at breakfast, or maybe he would ask Draco. It seemed safer to turn to his son for answers, as he was afraid she would flinch away from him if he dared to broach the subject. He couldn’t lose the tentative connection they had built, and he told himself that he wanted to be close to her because that might gain him favour with the Dark Lord, rather than the alternative, which was too terrible to even contemplate.

But in all his musing, he had never once considered that those awful scars that laced over her skin might not be from the wand of another, but might, after all, be self inflicted.


	3. Fire

Fire

The bath soothed her body and calmed her mind. Wincing at the sting of the fresh cuts that adorned her flesh, she succumbed to the warmth and gently rubbed her scalp, massaging in the lotion that an eager house elf had assured her would do wonders for her hair. She doubted it. The combination of dirt, grease and blood, as well as the fact that a haircut was desperately needed meant that any colour or style had disappeared weeks ago. It would take more than a lotion to fix her hair, and it would take more than a bath and a meal to mend her spirit.

The time drifted past. Unsure whether she had spent hours or minutes soaking in the tub, Magnus hoisted herself over the edge and fumbled for a towel. When she emerged from the turret bathroom, she caught sight of a nervous house elf disappearing out of the doorway, leaving a pile of neatly folded clothes on the bed. They were probably Narcissa’s. She wondered if the rest of the family would make an appearance, or if they were out helping Voldemort’s followers gather troops. Fear clutched at her and she shivered away from the thought that Draco might be dead. Lucius would have told her. He would have.

Most of the clothes were unsuitable. Wings made dressing impractical at best, and impossible at worst. For a moment she wondered why she worried so much about her appearance, it wasn’t as if Lucius cared. He had seen her naked after all, and covered in filth. The bed had already been stripped while she was in the bath, and a new set of blankets had been carefully fitted.

She decided to settle for a simple dress. Normally she would have turned up her nose at the femininity, but beggars can’t be choosers and she was in no position to demand her suitcase from Hogwarts. Had they burnt it? She would have. She would have wiped her father’s killer from the face of the earth. Irony is a funny thing.

There were no shoes, which was odd, but she was conscious of the time and didn’t want to chase around after a house elf for a pair of Narcissa’s heels. They wouldn’t have fitted anyway. She steeled herself for the walk downstairs.

Resting by the fire, Lucius was almost asleep. He had stayed up most of the night, carefully listening to check if Magnus was safe, and although he was hungry, fatigue made his bones heavy.

A soft patter of footsteps shook him awake, and he was glad. The first thing he noticed was her fiery red hair, almost alight in the weak winter sun, followed by the jet black of her wings, which seemed to melt in the light. She looked more alive than he had ever seen her, but her eyes were different. She looked much older than she was, and the vitality that seemed to lift her up was betrayed by the dejected way she picked her way down the staircase.

“Good morning.” He rose to meet her and gestured towards the table, “Help yourself. I hope the bath was satisfactory?”

“Yes, thank you. I feel much better now, and thank you for everything you’ve done.”

“I’m glad, and don’t worry, it was my pleasure.”

They both knew that was a lie. He was helping her because Voldemort had instructed him to, but the pretence was necessary. Neither of them wanted to address the situation, dire as it was.

She slipped into one of the chairs at the massive table, thinking back to the last time she had sat here with Draco and Narcissa. They had eaten dinner and laughed about the future. Happier times.

Lucius sat opposite her, and she got a good look at him for the first time since waking. He had regained some semblance of his former glory. Gone was the straggly beard and sunken eyes, and his hair had been combed fairly recently, but the tattoo from Azkaban was glaringly obvious, and his haughty pose had become a slump. He ate cautiously, with a remnant of aristocratic flair. She, on the other hand, would have inhaled the food were it not impolite, settling on eating as fast as she could without seeming rude. Still tied up in the rules of her youth that Dumbledore had so delighted in.

Neither of them spoke, but the silence was comfortable. Sometimes leaving things unsaid is better for keeping the peace. Magnus sensed that he was itching to ask about her scars, but that was a topic she preferred to leave alone. Broaching it would probably lead to tears.

When they had done eating, Lucius excused himself with the pretence of needing to oversee the house elves’ chores. Magnus retreated upstairs to brush her teeth and to avoid thinking about the Dark Lord and when he might return. She hoped, foolishly, that Lucius would follow her up and comfort her. Still clinging to the feeling of his hand on her skin.

After nearly going into the kitchen to berate the house elves, Lucius was having to content himself with wandering aimlessly through the corridors, glaring at the covered portraits that lined the walls. All he could see were fiery hair and jet black wings -

He was praying for any form of direction, caught between shunning the girl and embracing her. He was desperate for an excuse to leave the house, to get a breath of air to clear his head, but the Dark Lord’s instructions were clear: watch her and keep her alive. Never leave her alone in the house, never let her leave. What he would give for a brisk walk in the gardens - 

And then he remembered his cane. Lucius would have sworn, but there was no one to hear, and the portraits would wake up. He didn’t want his ancestors throwing around words like “freak” and “half-blood”. Magnus was fragile enough without the bile of a long-dead viscount lingering in her ears.

He found himself in the East Wing. His feet had taken him there of their own accord. Holding his breath, he knocked on her door. Maybe she would be asleep, maybe - 

“Come in.”

Hesitating, his hand lingered on the frame. The doorknob was made of oak, he remembered his father telling him that, and it was worn down from years of Malfoy hands twisting it open and shut. He gripped it and walked into the room. Magnus was stood by the window, hugging herself for comfort or warmth, he didn’t know. Her wings had drooped again, and the entire room felt dead and cold, devoid of hope.

“Forgive the intrusion, I forgot my cane…”

His voice caught in his throat as he realised she was crying again, shaking silently in an attempt to hide it from him. She hated showing weakness, but Lucius always found her at her most vulnerable. Her birthday, last year, when she ran away from Hogwarts and came to visit Draco. He had been out with his mother, and Lucius had given her hot tea and they had talked for hours. He had been surprised at her intelligence and wit, and despite her slipping away when Draco returned, he had spent the rest of the evening buoyed by the memories of her presence. An uncommonly good mood, for him.

Not stopping to think about the ramifications, not pausing to come up with some excuse, he walked to the window and gathered her into his arms, caressing her hair and holding her against him. It felt right, somehow.

She was caught off guard, but the moment his hands were on her, she sank into his embrace and clutched at him as if he would disappear if she didn’t hold him tight enough.

“There, there. It’ll be alright.”

Magnus choked, “I’m so scared, Lucius. So scared.”

He nearly tutted, a force of habit, but stopped himself in time. “Oh, I know.”

Her face was pressed against his chest, and he could feel her bones beneath the thin material of Narcissa’s dress. He was filled with an anger he hadn’t felt for an age. Anger at Dumbledore, at Voldemort, at all the people who had broken her down. She was never like this before. She would never have sunk into his arms, never would have sobbed with such despair. He cursed the world. He cursed himself for not protecting her sooner. She may have been an adult, but she was child-like in his arms. No, she had become an animal, retreating into herself and her wings. Lucius wished she could fly away from all this, but the Dark Lord would never let her go. They both knew any freedom she may have had depended entirely on the whims of a monster.

He kissed the top of her head, not pausing to think, and then kissed her cheek, lifting her head up with a finger and stroking her face tenderly. Her eyes, so full of pain, had a spark of trust that pooled deep in the cavern of her pupils. He couldn’t bear it if he broke that trust, but his fear of losing this tentative connection was battling with his desire to touch her, to feel her skin against his. Lucius felt as if he would go insane if she didn’t kiss her again. So he did.

Magnus felt, for the first time in the last year, safe. She never wanted to leave his arms, never wanted to break away from his touch. Her skin was on fire where he had kissed her, and when he lowered his head and his lips brushed hers, she melted.

His hand was on her waist, his other in her hair. He was pressed against her as if they could merge and become one. She was reaching up towards him, her lips tasting like fire, and her fingers dancing on his skin.

Lucius was the only one alive, the only one that mattered, and he was so strong, holding her against the wall. She could feel his hands all over her, caressing her body beneath the dress, fingertips dipping beneath the wire of her bra. She was barely breathing when he kissed her, and he took her breath away each time they touched.

But sanity broke through the haze and she yanked herself from him, stumbling against the window frame. He seemed to wake up at the same time, and turned from her, cursing under his breath. How could he have been so stupid? He might have just doomed them both.

“Lucius…” her voice was a mere whisper.

“I know.” 

“It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just that I can’t.”

He turned back to her, drinking her up with his gaze. “Mags, I know. I’m sorry.”

He hadn’t called her that in so long. Not since her birthday…

She shook herself. Sensing a change in the air, feeling Voldemort on the edge of her consciousness, she forced herself to stand. Lucius could feel it too, and he looked at her as if he was seeing her for the last time.

“If I start, I’ll never stop. And we both know he’ll never let me near you.” Lucius nodded in agreement, though it pained him to.

The Dark Mark on his arm began to burn. The Dark Lord had returned. He was here for her.

“Good luck, Magnus.”

They both knew she was going to need it.


	4. Snakes and Blood

Snakes and Blood

The dull murmuring of Voldemort’s inner circle was broken by Bellatrix’s whooping cackle as she danced through the dining hall, pirouetting in front of the staircase and grinning at Magnus through cracked teeth. Beside her, Lucius stiffened in irritation. He had always found Bellatrix to be a pain, but when she returned after a raid or a fight she was almost insufferable. Even the Death Eaters beside her who should be rejoicing in their victory were wincing each time she opened her mouth. Voldemort was the only one who tolerated her, inspired by her savagery and hunger for suffering.

Magnus wanted to run and hide from this sea of black robes and grinning teeth, whose eyes seemed to devour every inch of her, but fear and stubborn pride kept her rooted to the stairs. Besides, she had caught sight of Draco, silver hair flashing in the crowd, and his presence, as well as his nervous smile, gave her strength. Narcissa was next to him, her hand gentle on his arm, the motherly touch that Magnus was so envious of given freely. 

A sudden hush swept through the hall. Lucius slipped off the final stair and joined the rest of his family without a backwards glance. Although she knew it was for the best, Magnus couldn’t help but watch him go, wishing she could avoid the Dark Lord so easily. 

Voldemort seemed even more terrifying than when she had last seen him on the island; he had evidently been fighting closer to the action than usual, as there were splatters of blood on his feet and hands, and a few specks of red next to his mouth. Following in his wake, Nagini seemed to melt and pool into the floor, and if it weren’t for her glinting fangs, she would have been invisible against the blackened stone. His eyes were fixed on Magnus, and she was mesmerised by the aura of danger that he commanded that she almost forgot to kneel, she was so enraptured. 

But kneel she did, as she had always done, and he stood above her like a harpy, talons outstretched as if to consume her. This time she met his eyes, opening her mind to him, trying to appease him with her openness. It always made him feel in control when he used legilimency, especially when she would wince if he prodded her memories too harshly.

He motioned for her to stand, and she could feel the whole room holding its breath, eagerly awaiting the next move. Lucius could barely breathe, barely think, and in that moment when Voldemort caressed her head and grinned like an animal at his power over her, Lucius lost control of his thoughts.

Mine.

A sudden shadow came over the Dark Lord’s face, twisting his features, and he tasted the air, sensing weakness. He found it.

“Everybody out.”

His voice was barely palpable, barely loud enough to hear, but the whole room fell over themselves on their way to escape. Whatever was in store for the girl, they were not willing to incite the Dark Lord’s wrath to watch it unfold.  
“Even you, Bella.”

Now there was danger in the air. Bellatrix hated being left out, and with a childish pout she opened her mouth to argue, but was silenced with a shake of his head, not even worthy of a glance. His eyes were still on Magnus, still boring into her soul and setting her heart dancing with fear. 

“Yes, my lord.” 

She disliked not being involved, but she hated his disapproval more. And she had been blessed with a strong instinct for survival. Azkaban often instilled a desire for life in its inhabitants, which made Lucius’ blunder all the more inexplicable.

When the room was clear at last, Voldemort turned from her, gripping his wand angrily and curling his lip.

“My lord -”

“Silence.”

With a wave of his hand, she was tossed against the wall. The crack of ribs was deafening, but she would not scream, she would not give him the satisfaction - 

But she could not suppress a cry, an animal yelp of pain, and she barely had time to stand before he was on her, going for her throat with frightening speed.

He slammed her against the wall, extracting another howl of pain which ripped out of her and filled the room. Her head was bleeding from the force of the blow, blood dripping into her eyes and almost blinding her with red. He was closer than he had ever been before, face inches away from her, eyes alight with fury and … jealousy?

“You little whore,” he hissed, “did you think you could hide this from me?”. Saliva beaded on his canines as he bared his teeth, resisting the urge to bite her, to give in to the rage within. Her breath came in short gasps, lungs bruised, ribs breaking through the skin, as she clung to his arm, desperate for air. His wand was digging into her side, tearing the flesh, and it sent white hot sparks of pain up her spine. “You are mine. Mine! No one can touch you, no one can...”

He couldn’t speak, he was so filled with fury. He wanted her pain, he wanted her screaming on the floor, he wanted - 

“I-I’m sorry,” her aching flesh was warm to the touch, and he wondered how she had looked in Lucius’ arms. “I know I b-belong to you. It was a moment of weakness, nothing m-more.” Spots of light danced in her vision, and his face was melting into the room. Noise filled her ears and she wanted so badly to fade into the darkness, to slip away…

He looked down at the pile at his feet, feathers broken, shoulders curling away from him. Almost regretfully, he knelt and ran his hand over her skin, brushing away her wounds and healing the gashes on her body. With a start, her eyes snapped open and she shied away, scrabbling to get closer to the wall, as if a few yards could protect her.

He held on to her wrist, trying to anchor her to him. “If you so much as think about betraying me again…” he let the threat hang in the air, drinking in her fear as if it were nectar. She shook her head feverishly, eyes blown open with terror. He had hurt her before, but this constant back-and-forth of tenderness and punishment was exhausting, she couldn’t catch her thoughts. Why lash out and throw her against the wall, only to heal her wounds? 

“Good girl.”

Stroking her face, he pulled her to her feet. His face was hard and cold, but it seemed to her that there was affection somewhere in his eyes. She was wrong, of course, it was pleasure mixed with wolfish joy. He was almost ecstatic. Even after he had torn her skin open, ripping her flesh and splattering her blood onto the marbled floor, she leaned into his touch and found comfort in his praise, which she craved now more than ever. He wondered how far he could push her, how far she would go to earn his approval. Images danced in his mind. Salivating, he leaned in close, breathing in her scent and revelling in the stammering pulse as her heart hammered in her chest. Turning her head away so her neck was exposed, he thought about all the ways he could hurt her - 

All Magnus could think about was how hot his breath was. A stark contrast with the rest of him, which was like being touched by a corpse. His hand was still gripped around her wrist and the other was cradling her neck, holding her so his mouth could reach her throat. He seemed to pause and think for a moment, which would have given her an opportunity to slip from his grasp. In another age she would have, she would have fought tooth and nail to get away from what remained of Tom Riddle, but she was so tired, so tired of running. Even if he had released her, she wasn’t sure where she’d go, what she’d do. There was very little left of her.

But he thought better of it. He stopped short of her throat and collected himself. Better to save that for another day, he wanted to take his time with this one, to savour the taste of her for as long as possible.

“Go and get the others.”

His voice shook her, and she let out a shuddering breath. Whatever he had been pondering, whatever horrors he had planned for her, they were being saved for another day. 

No one would look at her. They had listened outside the door for her screams, disappointed by the meager yelping she had offered up as entertainment. Even Bellatrix looked subdued, no doubt anticipating being a part of Magnus’ torture. Evidently she didn’t know the Dark Lord as well as she thought. He’d never let anyone else hurt her, he was, apparently, possessive over her pain.

Lucius, however, was another matter. He was brimming with emotion, and it was palpable in the air around him. Even when seated at the enormous table, surrounded by Death Eaters, his fury was tangible. It held him up, no longer conscious of the danger that kept his wife and child silent and still.

At Voldemort’s right hand, Magnus had sunk into her chair, ignoring the dull voices of Yaxley and Dolohov as they strategized and plotted. They already had the Ministry in their grasp, the rest of the Wizarding world was sure to follow. Even Hogwarts was under their control, with Severus and the Carrows running the school like a prison. Severus. He was absent from the meeting, no doubt occupied with his students. Magnus longed for the days when she would sneak into his office and they would concoct potions together. There were benefits to growing up in Hogwarts, despite the overbearing presence of her father at every turn.

Gingerly, she pressed at her ribs, rubbing the reddened flesh that would soon turn white and scar over. Even magically healed wounds left terrible scars, and this would be an impressive addition to her collection. She wished that Severus were here, he never seemed afraid of the Dark Lord, whereas everyone around her was shooting glances at him, nervously searching for his approval. They may have been drunk on his power, celebrating their successes under his command, but none of them were stupid enough to feel safe. He could turn on them in an instant, and he frequently did. Like a snake, he was volatile and lashed out at the slightest irritation. Nagini’s scales were sleek, fed on a steady diet of those who displeased him.

All she had to do was survive.


	5. Before the Dawn

Before the Dawn

She woke with a start, jolting upright and almost slamming her head into the wooden bedframe. This wasn’t her bed, this wasn’t - 

Fear filled her lungs. The room around her was unfamiliar and bare, it was cold, too. The sun had not yet risen and the damp air seemed to sink into the floorboards and crawl under the sheets. The only indicator that she was still in Malfoy Manor was the tell-tale green furnishings with the family crest embossed on the corners, the curtains were viridian, and the bedframe was covered in heavy velvet, the colour of ivy. What part of the house was she in? It felt alien, hostile, as if this room was separate from the rest of the building, and it carried an air of danger that should have given away its occupant.

Of course. It was his room. Only he could suck the life out of a place so mercilessly. The place practically stank of evil.

Magnus shivered. She hoped she was alone, alone in his bed. The space beside her was cold and lifeless, but her mind was alight with terror, and she could have sworn there was an imprint of a body next to hers…

How did she get here? Vague memories swam in her mind: the meeting that had droned on for hours, then an image of someone carrying her upstairs. Not Voldemort, he was far too dignified for that, but perhaps…? Digging the base of her hands into her eyes, she groaned in frustration at the elusive nature of her thoughts. Then she caught the flash of silver hair and realised that in a cruel twist of fate, Voldemort had ordered Lucius to carry her to this room, depositing her into his bed. That was Lucius’ meager punishment, his warning to stay away from her. How his head must had raced as he imagined all the reasons the Dark Lord could have for wanting her in his bed -

Nothing had happened, had it? She had fallen asleep during the endless talking, and remembered very little until waking. She was certain that if Voldemort had decided to … hurt her, he would have wanted her to be aware. He always preferred his victims to be conscious, so that he could revel in their suffering.

Sifting through her memories, Magnus sought after any indicator of what had happened overnight. The images were hazy, distorted, as if someone had been rifling through her head, invading her mind. She hoped that was the extent of his intrusion, but very much doubted he would stop there. Moving her into his room was purposeful, it carried a warning, and the fact that she was on one half of the bed seemed carefully orchestrated. There was a threat that hung in the air. She was being reminded of her place by his side, her role as his weapon. He would never let anyone near her, and Lucius was lucky to be alive.

Voldemort preferred the early hours of the morning, when the sun was still hidden, and the night was quiet and still. He was drifting through the grounds, drinking in the mist, still buoyed by the violence of the previous day. Not just the skirmish between his forces and the pitiful wizards that still resisted his supremacy, but the memory of her blood on the floor, and her skin against his hand. 

He was slightly disappointed that she had fallen asleep at the meeting, he had wanted her to hear how scattered her friends were, how in control he was. But he had enjoyed the look on Lucius’ face immensely. How he gripped his cane until his knuckles turned white each time he looked over at her, the fury in his eyes which had soon turned to fear and horror when he learnt where Magnus would be sleeping from now on. It had been an almost genius blow, to make him carry her to the bedroom, and Voldemort grinned mercilessly at the thought.

The blackened grass crunched underfoot and a night owl hooted in the distance, but despite that, the morning was still. He felt a sudden yearning, a pang of loneliness which he had not felt in an age. He wanted to share this macabre beauty with her, to sweep away the thought of Lucius that plagued his mind and pull her closer to him. Reaching out with his mind, he searched for her presence, wondering if she was still asleep. He had always enjoyed visiting her while she slept, invading her dreams and playing with her mind. At the beginning of all of this, she would shy away and shake him from her consciousness, but eventually she had succumbed to his manipulation, his words of encouragement whispered in the dead of the night. It had taken nearly a year to convince her to join him, many nights spent cajoling and bribing, but eventually he found her weakness, the soft flesh beneath her shell.

It was her father, the fear of displeasing him, the abject terror she felt at the thought of becoming him, that led her to Voldemort. 

He suppressed a low chuckle. How delicious that had been, to find that Dumbledore’s mistakes had pushed his child away from him and into Voldemort’s path. The murmured confessions of her fears, the memories of his rage when she failed him, and of course the revelation of her scars, admitted to the Dark Lord as he hovered in her dreams. Her hatred of her wings, her desire to be accepted into normal society, and the disgust she felt at the use of her power, which took months to admit. 

She sighed and sunk back into the bed, relieved at his absence. Sleep was so rare for her, that even in the pit of vipers that she found herself in, she would succumb to its numbing embrace with ease. That was until he pricked the edge of her consciousness and dug his tendrils into her mind. A single word slithered into her ear. “Come.”

Magnus knew where he was, their connection drawing her to him. She slipped out of bed and picked her way across the floor, pausing to wrap a blanket around her dress, shivering in the night air. The Manor was deserted, no doubt everyone was curled up in their beds, gratefully coiled in the warmth. The staircase was even more imposing in the half-light, great, curved banisters warped by the darkness, stairs freezing to the touch.

Careful to avoid the creaking steps, she slipped into the hall, searching for the door. There was a glint of light coming from the kitchen, but the house elves were all asleep. Then Bellatrix’s cackling laugh slithered under the doorframe, and Magnus darted away, pressing herself against the front door. With a silent whoosh of air, the door gave way and she slipped into the gardens.

She found his cloaked figure by the fountain, waters black and still, like they had been when she waited for him on the island when her hands curled over the lip of the tomb and she had stared blankly at the white marble.

His head turned slightly, sensing her approach, teeth gleaming in the dead light of the moon. She was struck by how fluidly he blended with the night, as if he was a creature born to live in darkness and gloom. His robes made no sound as he walked towards her, moving effortlessly through the inky shadows, at ease in his natural domain.

“My lord.”

She greeted him, voice wavering with uncertainty, trembling in the cold. She pulled the blanket closer to her, desperately trying to use her wings for warmth. The cold never used to be a problem for her, as flights often took her high into the atmosphere where the temperature dropped and ice formed on her lashes, but now it was numbing and seemed to consume her. 

Wordlessly, he approached, breathed in her scent, musty with sleep and fatigue. He drank in the sight of her, equally desperate for her pain and her comfort, torn between lashing out or pulling her close.

He coiled his hand into her hair, slipping the blanket off her shoulders and letting it drop to the pine-covered floor, arm wrapping around her waist until she was pressed against him, her body fitting into his with practised ease. So long he had waited, so long he had envisioned rewarding her with their closeness, and now he was dizzy with want, unable to wait for her to come to him. Voldemort had never understood how to gain loyalty, his language was fear and pain and this served him well enough. His followers were attracted to power, and this made them pliable, easy to subdue. Never had he experienced this unyielding need for another, and usually he gained satisfaction from hurting her, but now he wanted something more.

In his mind’s eye, he could see them together. Him on his throne, master of all, and her at his side, his loyal subject, his war-dog. He wanted more than anything to inspire loyalty, to have her serve him willingly. He told himself that he was drawn to her power, to the strength she commanded, but the Dark Lord, master of Death, would never admit to the truth that hid in his breast. 

He was lonely.

Shaken out of his reverie, he was pleasantly surprised when she curled into him, her initial gasp of confusion and resistance overcome by the sudden change in his demeanor. Magnus had never seen this side of him before, and she would do anything to keep him in this mood, in this state of mind when violence seemed far from his thoughts. She had come to dread his cold anger, and the abuse that she had suffered meant that any alternative to rage was a cool balm. She needed to keep him happy, regardless of what it cost.

He stroked her face, tenderness mixed with cruel pleasure. He had expected her to fight him off, almost anticipated it, already planning how to overpower her, but this was even more delicious. After all he had done to her, all the pain he had caused, she was in his arms. He had broken her. She hoped that was what he thought.

Roughly, he tilted her head back and lapped at the hollow of her neck hungrily, his breath hot on her skin. Marking a line up her throat with his mouth, he reached her lips and attacked them with animalistic desire. Unlike her kiss with Lucius, this was like being devoured, like being eaten alive. It was almost worse than his rage. A muffled cry fled her lungs, and she battled with herself. Her first instinct was to fight back, to summon the storm and burn him with her lightning, but she knew if she resisted he would only enjoy the opportunity to hurt her further. She needed him to think she was his; the closer they were, the less likely he would be to expect betrayal. So she forced down her anger, held back her tears, and let him take control.

Mind aflame, he dug his fingers into her side and bit down on her lips, blood metallic and warm on his tongue. She tasted like lightning, like victory, and he wanted to destroy her. Wanted to absorb her, control her and devour her. Her flesh was so soft, so malleable in his grip, he wanted to tear it open and feast on her entrails. 

All she could feel was his mouth on hers. Burning. His teeth were digging into her lips, and he paused to run his tongue over her skin, cutting the soft flesh of her neck with his incisors, marking her. The taste of her was maddening, and he yanked her hair back to get better access to her skin.

An idea sprang into his mind, and with a sharp yank he tore the dress from her body, leaving angry red lines carved into the open skin. Carelessly, he tossed it to the ground, focusing on her now exposed flesh. Now he could run his hands all over her, he could touch her and meld their bodies together, and it drove him mad. He was groaning wildly, with animalistic want, and his hand was around the back of her neck, pushing her mouth to his.

His robes were swallowing her up, and she could feel his muscles beneath them as he coiled around her. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, leaving them pressed against his chest, thankful for the tiny gap between them. This seemed to infuriate him, he was so desperate for proximity, so with a rough grasp he forced them behind her back, gripping her wrists with one hand. White hot pain fizzled through her shoulders with his every move.

Now she was against him, her skin gleaming in the faded light, and he paused for a moment to admire her, revelling in the knowledge that she was his. All his. Their eyes met, and it seemed to her that his were entirely black, they seemed to drink her up. 

“Such a good girl,” he breathed, “so willing, so … perfect.”

He leant back down to her lips, this time with tenderness and care, soothing the bite marks in her skin, hands drifting lower and lower - 

Her mind was open and alive with fear.


	6. An Old Friend

An Old Friend

With a scream, a howl of terror, she lashed out. Allowing him to feel in control was one thing, but to succumb to his … lusts was entirely different. A solid punch to the chest, combined with a kick sent her spiralling into the dirt as he doubled over, wheezing. She lay there for a moment, stunned by her sudden burst of strength, before gathering her dress around her and springing into the air. Her wings, flightless for so long, were renewed and beat with a fervour born of anger and fear. Not pausing to look behind her, at the glaring red eyes of her attacker, she swooped above the manor, heading for the clouds.

Beneath her, Voldemort had regained his composure and watched her climb into the air, teeth set in a mirthless grin. She wouldn’t get very far, and when she fell back down to earth, he would be waiting with his wand and his anger. The thought of torturing her until she begged for his mercy swam in his mind, and he allowed himself to laugh. It filled the air.

Just as she reached the highest turret of the manor, Magnus turned to look at the figure below, his black robes invisible in the night. She wasn’t stupid enough to think that she was free, but the feel of the cool night on her skin, the wind rushing through her feathers, gave her new hope. She felt alive. A sound reached her ears, one that she hated, one that meant pain. His laugh, empty and hollow, rang out into the night and set her heart pounding. Why was he not chasing her? Why was he laughing?

With a sweep of her wings, she was lifted above the manor and could taste freedom on her tongue, eyes fixed on the pale moon that looked down with such disdain. She was leaving, she was - 

A crackle of light, accompanied with a shrill cry of pain, rang out, startling the sleepers and sending animals scuttling back to the nearby forest. Barely visible in the mist, a silvery dome appeared around the building, seeming almost alive with energy. It was this that Magnus had flown into, wings burning with agonising light, limbs thrown back with the force of the protego charm. Tumbling through the air, clawing desperately at nothingness, she fell. Her wings slowed her descent slightly, but she braced herself for the plummeting fall to the earth below, knowing that it would crush her into the ground.

But the inevitable crunch of bone never came. 

Severus had been travelling all night to get to the manor, spurred on by the owl from Lucius. Normally he would have used the floo network, but since his betrayal, the Order were especially keen to capture him, and so he preferred more anonymous ways of travel. His mind was racing, and the muggle driver’s incessant chatter was giving him a headache. Since Magnus’s disappearance several weeks ago, he had been desperate for news of her, worried that her father’s death, combined with fighting Harry in the Forbidden Forest had left her weak and alone. So when the letter from Lucius came, explaining how the Dark Lord had found her and brought her to the manor, he dropped everything and rushed from the school. He doubted they’d even notice he was gone. No education happened at Hogwarts any more, the Carrows were too busy torturing students to be interested in teaching them. Guilt was not in his nature, but he couldn’t help the rise of nausea that came with any thoughts of the school and its departed headmaster: Dumbledore had entrusted him with his death, certain in the knowledge that Draco would fail. What he could not have foreseen, however, was that his own daughter would stand in to protect Draco from the Dark Lord’s wrath and cast the blow herself.

No one had seen it coming. They were aware that Voldemort had been tapping into her mind for months, sowing the seeds of betrayal, but Dumbledore was certain that she would resist, certain that his lessons would ensure her loyalty. His lessons. Snape scoffed in derision. He had been a terrible teacher, and an even worse father, leaving Magnus alone for weeks on end, only spending any time with her in order to impart some knowledge about the usage of magic and how imperative it was that she obeyed him. Truly, it was no wonder that she had succumbed to Voldemort’s manipulation, when faced with a father who saw her as nothing more than a weapon.

Even so, Snape had hoped that their friendship, combined with the love she felt for Hogwarts would have kept her on the same side as her father. What no one had predicted was just how far she would go to protect Draco, the only brother she had ever known.

He sighed. One could only imagine the turmoil she had felt that night on the Astronomy Tower. Caught between her best friend and her father. Severus had told her that he would protect her, and he had failed. The sight of her, wings outstretched, as she tossed her father off the tower would stay in his mind forever. Her broken cry as she realised what she had done, the price she had paid for defending Draco, lingered in his ears. It should have been him, he should have been the one to take on that burden, not her. Not his Magnus.

Stepping from the taxi, handing the driver a generous wad of muggle cash, he raised his eyes towards the imposing image of Malfoy Manor. He began the long walk down the path, trees lining the sides. Each step brought him closer to her. With a wave of his wand, the facade of wrought iron gates shimmered and he was able to pass through. Behind him, the metal hardened and creaked.

He had no idea what time it was, probably early morning, but the moon was still out, dangling from the sky like a silver fruit. Despite the straggling weeds and the blackened grass, Malfoy Manor stank of aristocracy and wealth. A flash of movement caught his attention, and he noticed two figures in the garden, one bent over in pain, the other just about to take flight - 

Magnus.

Before he could warn her, the dome had crackled into life and scorched her wings, sending her spiralling back down to earth. Summoning his strength, he fired a spell towards her, mouthing ‘arresto momentum’. He prayed that the charm had found its mark and rushed towards where she should have landed.

But he was not the only one. As quick as a flash, Voldemort was upon her, knife in hand, teeth bared in fury. Grabbing her waist, he jerked her to her feet and pressed the blade to her throat. Her wings were crushed against his chest, and her arms hung limp at her side. Severus suppressed a cry, eyes wide at the scene before him. He had never seen the Dark Lord like this, his face twisted by anger, so close to losing control.

“Filthy bitch,” he growled in her ear, “you think you can escape me? I am your Master, your god. There is no one coming to save you, no one to help you. You belong to me, and I will use you as I please, do you understand?”

She made an unholy noise, part scream of anger, part sob of abject terror. The knife was digging into her throat and blood was pouring down her neck, staining the dress and painting her breasts a macabre crimson. Her ribs ached, and she had no idea how she had survived the fall. It didn’t matter, he would probably kill her now. All of this had been for nothing. She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Answer me!”

Magnus couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. Aflame with anger, incensed by her silence, Voldemort threw her onto the ground and pressed a foot into the small of her back. Kneeling beside her, cruelly crushing her wing beneath him, he shoved her into the earth, hand on the back of her neck.

His knife descended, and the scream was ungodly.

Severus nearly broke. He nearly threw away years of scheming and plotting and attacked. Barely containing himself, he lurked in the shadows, heart pounding, praying that Magnus was still alive, still breathing.

The pain was unlike anything she had ever felt. The blade sang as it cut through her flesh, tearing deep into the skin on her back. He was carving something into her left shoulder, and with each twist of his knife, she clawed at the earth and howled. It seemed to drag on for hours, her mind was delirious with agony, the steel burning into muscle and bone. She was dimly aware of the blood coursing down her side, pooling into the soil. It felt as if she would drown in her own ichor.

When he had finished, Voldemort raised the knife to his lips and dragged it across his tongue, savouring the taste. He grinned savagely, admiring the sight before him. His revenge was beautiful.

“Mine.” he whispered, words snatched by the wind that howled in the same voice as the girl on the ground. For that was what he had done, sculpting four letters into her skin, marking her as his. Forever. 

Mine.

And she was.

Gathering his robes around him, he stalked towards the figure in the garden. Snape. He had appeared in the bushes near the fountain, arriving sooner than expected. Magnus could hear their muttered conversation, but her mouth was filled with blood and she faded in and out of consciousness, unable to make out their words. 

Suddenly, the pressure in her mind was relieved as the Dark Lord ghosted back towards the mansion. Bellatrix’s cackle signalled her presence, and the pair disappeared inside. Had he left her to die?

Her answer came in the form of an old friend. Severus knelt, careful to avoid the mattered mess of feathers, and reached for his wand. Murmuring to himself, he ran the wood over her back, a blue light washing over the wound, and the blood began to flow in reverse. It was an odd sensation, and had she been able to feel anything besides the agony in her shoulder, Magnus would have been fascinated by the display of magic. The white flesh knitted back together, but the letters were stark and raised, the thick scars promising never to fade. He did his best to heal the burns from her encounter with the dome, but even magic has its limits, especially when the person themself doesn’t want to be healed. At this point, death would have been a welcome embrace.

“Magnus…”

His voice was soothing, low and calm, despite the anguish in his heart. Hope was an evil thing, yet he hoped that she could hear him, that she took strength from his presence and solace in his company. Struggling to his feet, he took her in his arms and began to walk, keeping his roughened palms well away from the newest scars. If he could just get her inside, to Narcissa and Lucius, instead of the others, there was a chance that she would wake within the day. If the rest of the Death Eaters got their hands on her, however, it was possible that her body would just give out from the abuse. He wasn’t sure if Voldemort would care. All he wanted was to keep her in constant pain, and even Snape didn’t know if he gave a damn about her life. Magnus was a new toy, and the Dark Lord would use her until she broke. That day might come sooner than expected.


	7. Twisting the Knife

Twisting the Knife

Magnus wasn’t sure how long she’d been at the manor. Here, in this half-light, caught between the waking world and the land of dreams, time flowed in a different way.

She hadn’t been let out of her room since the incident in the garden, which was probably for the best. Severus visited as often as he could, bringing some odds and ends from Hogwarts, books and the like, but it was a pitiful substitute for their old lessons. The scars on her shoulder hadn’t yet healed, and they burned whenever she moved. A constant reminder of who she belonged to. A monster.

After a few restless nights, she had taken to pacing the room, navigating the creaking floorboards and exploring the various nooks and crannies in the turret bathroom. She had found several secret compartments so far, including a draw full of old love letters, which she quickly replaced. They reminded her of Lucius, and she would do anything to avoid those painful memories. Speaking of Lucius, he hadn’t visited in an age, as most of the Death Eaters were banned from her room, but he occasionally sent the house elves up with treats. She found it odd, and weirdly endearing that he remembered her favourite herbal tea. The biscuits he sent were the same ones they had eaten on her birthday. 

She slept as often as she could, but insomnia plagued her. The worst thing was the ache in her wings, left drooping and dull after the contact with the dome. She craved flight now more than ever, to stretch her wings out to their full span, to taste the air on her tongue.

What made her truly worry, though, was that Voldemort hadn’t made an appearance yet. She wondered what he had planned, and hoped that the reason for his absence was that he was losing the war. She doubted it though, he had the wizarding world in a stranglehold. It pained her to think that most of her friends were probably dead. Not that they were her friends any more. 

She drifted into sleep, succumbing to the blissful warmth of her bed.

...

Severus was afraid. The Dark Lord had a trick up his sleeve and Magnus would be in extreme danger once it was revealed. There was little he could do to protect her, and he hated feeling this powerless. For a moment, he considered an alliance with the Malfoys, but quickly dismissed it. He knew Lucius would be desperate to keep Magnus safe, but self-preservation was always foremost in his mind. Draco was too young to be of much help, and Narcissa would never agree to anything that would risk the safety of her family. He was utterly alone, and the longer Magnus remained at Malfoy Manor, the more danger she was in, and his fear only grew, knowing what was in store for her.

Two days ago, a raiding party had attacked an Order safehouse. Most had escaped, but only down to the action of one man, who had been captured and brought to the manor, where he remained locked in the cellar, screams muffled by the thick stone walls. Voldemort was intending on interrogating him personally, and was due to arrive at the manor in a few days time. He had told Severus to keep Magnus out of the way of the rest of the Death Eaters, as he wanted her in peak condition when he arrived, as she would be present for the interrogation. Maybe he would make her participate. This was what Severus was afraid of.

The date for the interrogation came all too soon. Voldemort arrived, loyal entourage in tow, Bellatrix overjoyed to be back at the manor, her giggling filling up the house. Severus had been ordered to bring Magnus downstairs, to keep her seated by his side and to ensure she behaved.

...

Magnus wasn’t used to seeing fear in Severus’ face. It looked misplaced and odd, he was usually so composed. Even when tending to her wounds, he hadn’t allowed the anger to surface, remaining calm and gentle. He even told the odd joke to keep her spirits up. He had a truly terrible sense of humour. But the fear was there, and it set her on edge.

So when he led her downstairs, and those faces rotated to stare, she met them with defiance. Teeth bared, head held high, she ignored the cackles and barbed comments, following Severus to her seat next to the Dark Lord. He seemed to be in an uncommonly good mood, and this made her skin crawl with paranoia. The moment she was seated, he grinned at her and reached across to stroke her hand, his fingers icy cold against her skin. It was an odd display of affection, especially in front of the others, and the only comfort she got from it was that it irritated Bellatrix. From the moment Magnus had stepped into the room, Bellatrix had been glaring at her, and now she chuckled with anticipation, eager to see Magnus’ haughty demeanour fall apart once the Dark Lord revealed who was about to be interrogated.

Voldemort gestured for Wormtail - that slimy git - to fetch the prisoner. As they waited, he reached into her mind and scraped through her thoughts to amuse himself. He was rougher than usual, and it made her wince. He settled on the memory of his attack in the garden, glee radiating through their connection as he relived the savage violence of her branding. A word slipped into her mind, stinking of snake skin and blood.

Mine.

She shivered. 

There was a sudden commotion, and Yaxley stood, pushing out of his chair to go and help Wormtail drag the prisoner in. The anonymous shape was putting up an impressive fight. Magnus didn’t know if that made the spectacle better or worse. She hoped that it was no one she knew, but then why would she be here? Voldemort wanted her to see this, and the only comfort she had was that the hooded figure was too tall to be anyone from Hogwarts, at least not one of the students.

With a grand sweep of his arm, Yaxley yanked the bag from the man’s face, making sure to make it as painful as possible. Head hanging, blood dripping from his mouth, the prisoner was unrecognisable until the Death Eater grabbed a handful of hair and jerked. His face exposed, the full extent of Remus’ injuries were clear, and he did not look good.

Remus.

Woollen sweaters and stale parchment. Holes in his gloves and the smell of lavender. Skeletons of odd creatures dangling from the ceiling of his classroom, how she had marvelled at his knowledge of the magical world. His compassion and his smile. On her eighteenth birthday he had gifted her with a bronze locket, a sprig of lavender fastened inside, along with a lock of his hair. That was three years ago. 

Remus.

The person who knew better than anyone the hatred she felt for her wings, for her gift. How she would lose control when her emotions were high, and how many people had been scorched by her lightning when she got angry. After a full moon, they would curl up together in his classroom and compare scars, trying to find any humour in the situation. He could always make her smile.

Remus.

She had been the person he had told when he first fell in love. When he realised that the affection he felt for her was purely platonic, and that he had met his soulmate years before her, with his dark, messy hair and his flashing grin. They had laughed about it, and she had teased him for being so ignorant, claiming that she knew long before he did.

“Remus!”

She summoned the wind, felt the storm fill her up, throwing her chair back as she leapt to her feet and screamed his name. Beside her, Severus had jumped up, and was yelling something, trying to get her attention. She could hear laughter, cruel, mocking laughter, and was dimly aware of Voldemort’s eyes on her. There was a hand on her arm, Severus, and another on her shoulder, he was speaking but she was underwater, nothing else mattered but Remus. She had to protect him.

Then time seemed to catch up, and Severus grabbed her, locking his arms around her waist, holding her still as she struggled to get to the bloodied man at the end of the table. Her throat was hoarse, aching, as she howled in desperation. His face was in her neck, whispering to her, trying to keep her still, to remind her of the danger she was in. “Nothing good will come of this. Calm down, calm down.”

Beside them, laughing at the scene, Voldemort watched Severus try to restrain her. The wind was howling around the room, and the dim rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance. The agony on her face was clear, and he wanted to make it worse. This was far more enjoyable than playing with her mind, and he wondered how many people he could hurt in order to get to her.

Remus was struggling against his bonds, using up the last vestiges of strength in a desperate attempt to free himself. Yaxley struck him across the face, sending blood spurting into the air, but this only angered him, and the werewolf elbowed Wormtail in the crotch, ripping a wheeze of pain from the shorter man.

With a swift motion, Voldemort fired a bolt of red light towards Lupin’s shaking figure, sending him crashing to his knees with a yelp of pain. His eyes were fixed on Magnus, shock and horror watering in their depths. 

“Stop struggling, it won’t make any difference.” Severus’ voice broke through the haze of red which clouded her vision, but Remus was the only one she saw, and she couldn’t breathe. The storm only grew louder, windows rattling in their frames, and now the wind was unbearably cold, whirling through the manor and curling in her hair. Severus’ grip only tightened, and he held her to him with the desperation of a dying man.

“Take her upstairs.”

Severus knew this was coming, as the Dark Lord had planned it, and there was a vial of Dreamless Sleep Potion in his room which would help subdue Magnus for the time being. Mustering his strength, he half-carried, half-dragged her from the hall and up the steps, hoping that the wind would die down once she was away from Remus. It did not. It took all his will to force the drink down her throat, unable to look her in the eye as he did so, shame tightening in his lungs.

Slowly, her protests and erratic kicks grew less powerful, until eventually she lay, panting, on his bed. Tears formed in her eyes and threatened to spill over, and she could not raise a hand to brush them away. The potion had drained her strength entirely, leaving her unable to move.

With a flick of his cape, Severus sighed and sunk onto the side of the bed, drawing her into his arms. He tried to comfort her by rubbing her back, slowly stroking her wings, but she choked on her sobs. The screaming from downstairs floated up to his room, and sent her convulsing in a spasm of agony. The dark haired man felt as if she were miles away from him, trapped in a place he couldn’t reach. He knew how close she and Remus were, and her desperation was unbearable, it made his heart ache.

There was a thump from below, as if a body had hit the floor. They looked at eachother, her eyes welling up, both sharing the same dreadful thought. Severus shook his head slightly, knowing that the Dark Lord would want to kill the werewolf in front of her, and the noise from downstairs was more likely Remus’ legs giving out from exhaustion. Voices, filled with mirth, drifted through the air, followed by a short bark of commands and Wormtail’s stuttering acknowledgement. The clang of the cellar gate rang out, and Remus was deposited back into the makeshift dungeon. Stiffening, Severus lifted his head at the sound of footsteps.

Someone was coming upstairs.


	8. Break My Bones

Break My Bones

Exhaustion made her eyelids heavy, the potion seeping into her veins, but the thought of Remus kept her conscious, struggling through the fog in her mind. Severus was here, she knew that much, but everything around him blurred, hazy shapes fading in the gloom. A low, methodic thudding rang in her ears, and the scrape of hinges made her fingers twitch. The pressure at her side lifted, and the dark shape of the potions master seemed to float towards the door, towards the pale face and cold eyes that haunted her dreams. Struggling to her elbows, she pushed herself up against the velvety fabric of the bed sheets. Lying on top of the bed, she arched her back, desperately trying to suck in air and clear her head.

There was a murmur of conversation, Severus’ low drone overshadowed by the Dark Lord’s serpentine voice, like the crackle of wood on a fire as it spits its embers over the hearth. Almost crying with frustration, she moaned and clutched at her head. Her ears were ringing, muscles weak with fatigue. Severus turned and looked at the prone figure stretched out on the sheets, despairing at her plight. He was powerless against the might of the Dark Lord.

“Leave us.”

Opening his mouth to argue, to protest, Snape was silenced by a glint of danger in Voldemort’s eye, his lip curling with malice, almost daring the man to challenge him. Head bowed, filled with shame at his weakness, he slipped from the room, cloak billowing out behind him.

Now, Voldemort turned his attention to the girl on the bed, listening to her muffled groans of fury as her body succumbed to the numbing potion. Refusing to give up, she continued to dig her hands into the sheets and gasp at the air.

“My dear, why such a fuss?”

She growled, a low, guttural noise of anger that set his teeth on edge. He wanted her begging, and this resistance irritated him. 

“Re-Remus -”

With a sweep of fabric, he was by her side, bending over the bed to glare into her eyes. “And what of him?” his voice was soft and filled with danger, carrying the threat of further violence.

“L-let him g-go…” She managed to choke out a few words, the potion cloying in her throat.

He nearly laughed, holding it down and grinning humorlessly, wanting to see if he could push her to tears. “Why should I?” His face was inches from hers, breath stinking of decay, teeth shining in the lamplight. 

“Please… I’ll do anything.” Her voice was barely palpable, lungs desperate for air, as her chest shuddered with each breath. She seemed to realise the enormity of her words, eyes widening as Voldemort came closer, looming above her like a harbinger of death.

“Swear to it.” 

Bellatrix’s nasal words cut through the air. The girl whimpered, only now realising that the Death Eater had been standing in the doorway this whole time. Above her, the Dark Lord smiled, “Now, now, Bella,” eyes boring into hers, “only if she really wants to.”

His hand slipped up her leg, crushing the soft flesh and making her sob with terror. His lips were practically on hers, and he whispered into her mouth, “How much do you want to save him?”

What would she do to protect the ones she loved?

Murder? Torture? She had already killed once to protect Draco, and the taste of regret was bitter on her tongue. How much that had cost her. Her father, her friends, and her freedom. Would she do it again? Could she?

Was Remus really worth it?

The answer made her blood run cold, and she fought with herself. Self-preservation forced her hand, and she shook her head. “I … I can’t.” Disappointedly, he clicked his tongue and stood, leaving his hand resting on her thigh. 

“Such a shame,” he stroked her leg gently, “Bella.”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Have fun.”

Gleefully, she licked her lips and giggled, salivating with anticipation. Lupin had been a thorn in her side for as long as she could remember, and she did so love killing for her Lord. This would break Sirius’ heart, that filthy blood-traitor. 

“Shall I kill him here, or in the cellar?” She hoped that the Dark Lord would let her slice his neck open in front of the girl, and she tasted the air, tongue glistening. Violence was second nature to her now, hatred spurring her on.

“As much as I admire your blood lust, Bellatrix, you make too much mess. Kill him outside, but make sure she can see.”

Magnus shook with tears and watched Bellatrix disappear through the doorway, her screeching laugh resonating throughout the manor. Gripping her arm, Voldemort yanked her out of the bed, dragging her towards the window that looked out over the gardens. His arm wrapped around her waist and he tugged her upright by her scalp. Hissing with pain, she tried to stand, but her legs gave way and she sagged into his chest, earning a sharp yank to her hair.

Below them, Bellatrix danced into the garden, Yaxley and Remus in tow. The latter’s skin was bloody and bruised, one eye swollen shut as a result of his beating. He must have held out for a long while before breaking down and revealing his secrets. Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe they couldn’t break him. The thought made Magnus’ shame grow, she was so weak, so useless, unable to protect anyone.

Holding her to him, turning her face to watch Remus forced to the ground, Voldemort felt alive with power. Even if she let Remus die, he was certain that before the day was out, she would be his. He tugged her head back into his shoulder, mouth by her ear, “Are you ready?”

Without waiting for an answer, he gestured for Bellatrix to begin, knowing that she would torture Lupin for a while before granting the sweet release of death. She was his most loyal servant, and he almost felt guilty at his lack of affection towards her. Almost.

Guilt was not in his nature, but cruelty was, and he breathed in the scent of terror, the girl in his arms too weak to struggle. From the moment he had first laid eyes on her, he knew how much he wanted her. Pain and pleasure were almost the same to him, and the more she wept, the more alive he became. And weep she did. With each flash of red light, he felt the strength and resistance leave her body, leaving her almost immobile in his grasp.

“That’s it, give in to me.”

His words seemed to shake her. Images ran through her head. Remus laughing. Remus in his classroom. Remus lying under the trees, his head in her lap. Remus stealing her food when they ate in the Great Hall, making her almost cry with laughter. Remus’ face when he was reunited with Sirius. Remus’ smile at their wedding, when she had slipped out early, leaving them to their celebrations. Remus. Remus.

She couldn’t let him die.

Clarity returned to her mind, and she knew what she had to do. No one else would suffer for her sake. If she could save them, she would.

“Enough.” The strength of her voice surprised her, and she sounded much tougher than she felt. “Let him go.”

With a twist of his arm, he signalled for Bellatrix to pause, irritation plain on her face. He pushed her against the wall, towering over her. “And what will you give me if I spare him?” he murmured, lowering his mouth to her neck, intoxicated by his power over her.

Arching her back, praying that he would be too absorbed in his own cleverness to detect the betrayal in her mind, she let out a sigh, lacing her words with submission. “Anything, my lord,” he sucked in a breath, surprised at her sudden resolution. “Please, just let him live.” As soon as Remus was safe, she would make her move, but she could not afford to give anything away. His life was far more important than her dignity. Voldemort could have her body if he so desired, but it would not be her. It would not be her.

Trailing his fingers up her thigh, he gripped her hip and pulled her close. Want pooled in his gut.

“Very well.”

He let her drop to the floor, moving to the window and motioning for Yaxley to bring the prisoner to him.

...

Remus had no idea why they’d stopped, why he’d been dragged outside to what he thought was his execution, only to be left on the edge of death. The blonde Death Eater, Yax-something, manhandled him roughly, bundling him inside. His mind was still spinning from seeing Magnus, and he wondered if the sudden cessation of torture was her doing. Magnus. Even the thought of her made him feel sick. Her betrayal had perhaps hurt him the most, the carelessness with which she threw away their one chance at winning the war. With Dumbledore dead, and her fighting for Voldemort, the war was all but lost. Just as he found his family, just when he thought he could be happy again, his world fell apart around him. Merlin, he missed Sirius. The thought of him, safe in Grimmauld Place, gave Remus strength, and he gritted his teeth against the pain.

It didn’t matter to him that Magnus had saved Sirius’ life, all that time ago in the Department of Mysteries, as far as he was concerned, the murder of Dumbledore overshadowed any good she may have done in the past. Murderer. Monster.

Even so, the sight of her crumpled on the floor, You Know Who towering above her, wand in hand, made him suck in a shaky breath. They were in the hall, him on his knees, her curled into a ball, and between them, the dark figure at the centre of it all. 

She couldn’t meet his eyes, and wouldn’t stand to face him, despite the renewed energy in her muscles as the potion’s effects began to fade. She had almost let him die, and even though he didn’t know that, the shame made her bow her head.

Kneeling at the feet of the most powerful wizard in history, one thought ran through her head, it made her wish she could fall down a pit that never ended, she wanted to run until she couldn’t run any more.

This is the end, the end of her.


	9. Deal With The Devil

Deal With The Devil

A select few had gathered in the hall, Bellatrix, Severus and Lucius chosen to oversee the proceedings. A Binding, it was called, when one soul became the property of another. It could only be entered into willingly by both parties, which was why Voldemort hadn’t forced it upon her sooner. It lasted for a relatively short while, little over a year, and the ritual must be performed annually to ensure maximum efficiency.

She remembered reading about Bindings in her history of magic classes, the forbidden Dark magic piqued her interest and she had poured over the books in her bedroom, high up in the Astronomy Tower. Those books had been heavily laden with secrets, and it had taken many months of cajoling and bribing until Severus had retrieved them from the library for her. The smell of those musty tomes was a long-faded memory, and her fingers ached for parchment and leather-bound covers. Maybe if she survived this war, she’d go somewhere with lots of books. She could take Severus with her.

Rubbing her eyes, she shook herself out of her reverie. Remus was glaring at her from his slumped position beside Bellatrix, and her breath grew laboured at the thought of what she was about to do for him. She was going to give up everything. 

Why did he have to watch her fall apart?

As if he had read her mind (and he probably had), Severus stepped forward, “My lord? Does he really need to be here?” gesturing at Remus with feigned disgust. The presence of the prisoner was, undoubtedly, unnecessary, but he hoped nonetheless that the Dark Lord would send Remus back to the cellar. Above all, he wanted to shield Magnus from the added humiliation. Bindings were notoriously messy businesses, and the last thing anyone wanted was an outsider to witness either party at their weakest. “What if he talks?”

Voldemort considered it. The risk was low, as he didn’t intend Lupin to get very far once set free, but his pride made him hesitate as the possibility of an enemy seeing him compromised in any way made his skin itch. He was an extremely vain man in every way.

Trying his best to seem utterly uninterested in the whole affair, he waved his hand disdainfully. “Very well, lock him away.” With a flick of his wand, the fire in the heart belched and grew until it filled the whole fireplace, the bowls of oil around the room bursting into flame, illuminating Bellatrix as she dragged Lupin down the cellar stairs, gates clanging behind them.

“Begin.”

Swallowing down the bitter potion that Severus handed her, Magnus prepared herself, settling onto her knees, splaying her hands on the floor. She knew it looked odd, but her experiences with Dark Magic had taught her valuable lessons: expect anything, and brace yourself.

Rolling her shoulders, she cracked her neck and waited to receive the next ingredient in their macabre ritual. Blood.

Fixing his eyes on the girl before him, Voldemort dug the blade of Bellatrix’s knife into his wrist, face blank and emotionless. He gritted his teeth as the metal sang through his flesh, enjoying the pain. Lucius held a wooden bowl before him, the ancient potion bubbling as ichor trickled down his hand and into the mixture. Magnus would have to drink three separate potions, one a mixture of dragon’s blood and other potent remains, one with herbs and wormwood, and the final one would be the most dangerous of all: snakeroot, oleander and hemlock, rendered safe to drink only by his blood and the muttered spells that ghosted from his lips. To make this Binding even more secure, once the three were drunk, she would receive blood directly from his veins. It would ensure her utter obedience and loyalty, for blood oaths and rituals were among the most potent of spells, used only in the most extreme situations.

The spell would have a limited effect on Voldemort, the only slight he would suffer being a line of bloodied marks on his wrist, followed by a black symbol that would fade with time. Magnus, on the other hand, would undergo rapid physical transformations, including whirling runes all over her torso and arms, slitted pupils, and a pigmentation of the blood. Her blood would run black; congealing in her veins as part of the process, flowing freely once the Binding was complete. It was the most permanent change, a constant reminder of her bondage to him. As if she could get any more monstrous.

Taking the bowl from Lucius, Snape knelt before the girl, raising the potion to her lips and helping her drink it down, wincing as he did so. Her eyes rolled back into her head as the combined effects of all three draughts began to take hold. Uttering a low moan, her head sunk into his hands. Severus had suspected Voldemort would try and bind Magnus to him, having been instructed to bring several key ingredients for the ritual with him the last time he visited, but never had he imagined that she would give in so willingly. Yes, she was backed into a corner, and yes, he knew how much she cared for Remus, but to give in to such evil, to sacrifice her humanity for life of one man, this astounded him. Perhaps she was stronger than he thought, or maybe she was just tired of fighting, and this was the easiest way to admit defeat. How could anyone blame her for her actions if it was Voldemort pulling the strings? She was to become his greatest weapon, his strongest ally. With one ritual, the war was won. Or so everyone thought.

“Stand aside, Severus.”

The whisper of dead leaves reminded him of the task at hand, how he was to bear witness to possibly his only living friend giving up their freedom, their control.

Bones weary with the effects of the potions, Magnus offered little resistance as he tilted up her head to drink from his wrist. Her mouth was hot, as if a fever raged inside, and she drank down his blood thirstily, the spell making her dizzy with need. Eagerly - too eagerly - she bit down, teeth pinching his flesh. His grip on her throat tightened slightly, a warning that she did not heed. The oleander flowed through her veins, and if she’d had the strength, she’d have drained him of every last drop of ichor.

With a sudden push, she fell backwards, landing with a thud on the marbled floor, mouth curled upwards in an intoxicated grin. Splayed out beneath him, she looked like a renaissance painting, the blood lingering on her teeth giving her an almost demonic air. She wondered if this was what hell felt like, and suddenly dying didn’t seem so scary.

Her vision blurred, and muffled shapes swarmed above her. She could see her father’s face as he fell towards the unforgiving earth, but this time he was smiling. Laughing. He didn’t care that she had killed him, no, he was grateful. Life was a curse, and death was the cure. A voice broke through the memory, Harry’s voice. 

“Traitor!”

Why did they all hate her, she wondered? She had only done it to protect Draco, and it wasn’t as if her father had been a good person. Really, they should be thanking her. She had the strength to do what they could not. He had given her the strength.

Voldemort. The Dark Lord. Her teacher, master and saviour. The Binding coiled in her chest, wrapping itself around her heart, choking the goodness out of her. Her soul ached, why did they all hate her? It was unbearable.

“Father…” a whisper fled her throat, “help me…” 

No one was there. No one could help her now.

Her eyes snapped open and she felt free, as if she had been reborn. Everything looked different now, the shadows held new beauty for her and the figures around her were open to her sight. She felt their weakness, their mortality as he did. Now she understood his unyielding search for eternity. How dull their lives were, how empty they truly were.

Only he seemed alive to her, brimming with a vitality born of dancing with death. His soul was fractured, broken, but that division only made him seem more powerful. A voice at the back of her head protested, arguing that he was evil, so evil, but that voice was weak and tired. Better to give in to the Binding, to the mastery of her new lord.

“Master,” she breathed, “master.”

Even those as blind as Lucius sensed the change, felt the shift in her soul. He could have wept, could have screamed hoarsely at the sky, but such anger felt useless. Although he was on the winning side, the price of walking with devils was high. There would come a time when they all had to pay. 

And how she had paid. How much it had cost her.

“Master.” she whispered again, and fell at his feet, head bowed in reverence. Admiring the new markings adorning her skin, Voldemort tilted her chin up so that their eyes met. Savage joy burned in his chest, mingled with a sense of sorrow; no more would she fight back, no more feisty rage. No matter. She was his now, and how glorious she looked.

She melted into his touch, eyes drinking in the sight of him. Standing back, chest tightening with fear, Snape reminded himself that this would fade, that the Binding was only temporary, and she could yet survive this. 

But could he?

Sharing a nervous glance, Lucius and Severus backed out of the room, motioning to Bellatrix to do the same. Under different circumstances she would have argued, kicked off a massive fuss, but once she saw how Voldemort was looking at Magnus, she fled. He was enraptured, entranced. Utter control was a new sensation, and it made him light-headed.

“There … all safe now,” he drew her up, carefully stroking the black runes on her arms, “I’ll take good care of you.”

Trapped deep inside her mind, a prisoner of her ribcage, Magnus shuddered. What had she done?


	10. Aftermath

Aftermath

With a sigh, Lucius slumped into his chair, watching the potions master pace the room, cloak billowing out behind him. They had been waiting for hours, and each second crawled by, broken only by the dull ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, it’s dulcet chimes resonating throughout the manor every half hour. He gritted his teeth.

“This is ridiculous!” he snapped, clipped tones haughty with aristocratic impatience, “How much longer does he expect us to wait?”

Severus continued to pace with his hands clasped in front of him, knuckles turning white as his frustration built. How he despised Lucius’ selfish attitude, the sneer of his lip and the snark insults that he would throw out at the earliest opportunity. He had almost preferred the shell of the man that had returned from Azkaban, not this reborn Lucius, bursting with arrogance and pride. 

“I mean, how long does it take to breed the girl? It’s not like she’s putting up much of a fight -”

With a snap of his heel, Severus came to a dead stop, glaring at the silver-haired man. He was boiling with anger. It was almost overwhelming how much danger Magnus was in, and it infuriated him that Lucius was choosing to focus on how long he had to wait, rather than the proceedings taking place above them.

Soon after the Binding ceremony, the Dark Lord had appeared for a brief moment, instructing them to wait in the hall until he returned, before sweeping upstairs with Magnus in tow. Severus shuddered at the memory; how her eyes had glazed over and she had seemed unaware of the events unfolding around her. How he had wanted to defy the Dark Lord, to steal her away from this place and let her roam free, but the promises he had made held him in place. The very outcome of the war depended on how well he played his part, and it would be so selfish and idiotic to abandon them now, considering how much had been sacrificed. They had both lost so much.

Which was why Lucius’ clipped tones made his blood boil. Severus knew he was trying to compensate for the shared moment of intimacy between him and Magnus, but the manner in which he was doing it incensed him. Breed the girl? As if this wasn’t Mags up there, the same Mags who had spent so many happy days in his classroom, helping him prepare potions, chopping herbs and roots, occasionally becoming covered in ingredients, hair tangled with thyme. As if this wasn’t the same Mags who had attended the elaborate balls at Malfoy Manor, making fun of the haughty aristocrats that supped there, the only person who had made him forget the social etiquette and the empty faces staring at them. Even Lucius had enjoyed having her there and had asked her to dance with him, whirling around the hall in a flurry of wings and fabric. He wondered if she would ever dance again like she used to, with such reckless abandon. As if the outside world didn’t matter. 

But it did now. Every move mattered in this macabre dance with death. She was his king, and right now it felt as if they were locked in checkmate. 

…

Voldemort felt sated. As if something has been gnawing at him for an age and he had finally quenched an ancient thirst. Leaving her collapsed at the foot of his bed, he swept downstairs, searching for something to kill.

Before he even reached the room, he could smell the conflict within. Grinning, he pushed the door open drinking in the scent of despair. His favourite.

“Severus, Bella, come with me.”

Startled, Bellatrix almost fell from her perch on the velvet sofa where she had been sleeping, eyes darting over to the dark figure in the doorway. Following her gaze, Severus locked eyes with Voldemort before bowing his head. He was desperate not to leave, desperate to go and help Magnus, to ensure her safety. His frustration was palpable. How could the Dark Lord take him and leave Lucius?

“Where to, my lord?”

Curling his top lip, Voldemort almost invited the challenge. “Does it matter?” his tone was filled with menace, the threat hanging in the air. Sensing the danger he was in, Snape assented and shook his head, choosing to follow him from the room. Bellatrix, ever faithful, followed eagerly, glad that the winged girl was at last absent. Fear rippled in his heart, the need to protect Mags clawing at his ribcage. He sent Lucius a final glance before he left, one that clearly said ‘Find Magnus.’ He hoped it was enough. There was little else he could do.

Lying on the floor above their heads, Magnus was trembling, the ghost of his skin lingering in her head, the memory of him as he had bent down to touch her before he left was making her shake. He had lifted her lips to his, coiling his hand in her hair for what felt like an eternity before letting her flop to the ground. His words swam in her ears, “Such a pretty little thing,” he had said, “wait here for your master’s return.”

She didn’t want to think of the hours that she had passed in his bed, in his arms. Those memories burned to the touch, and her mind locked them away to protect her from descending into madness. Glimpses of their bodies swarmed in her head, how he had torn at her, how he had delighted in her exposed and opened up to him. The fog of the Binding, the delusion that had made her his slave only lingered for a while, and it hadn’t taken her long to become painfully aware of what he was doing to her. 

Curling into the blankets that had fallen with her, she drew her wings around her and dug her palms into her eyes, rubbing at the memories in desperation. She was dimly aware of footsteps thudding behind her, but burrowed further into the sheets, praying that Voldemort wasn’t the one standing behind her, watching.

“Oh Mags…” Lucius sighed, kneeling beside her, “what has he done to you?” There were angry red scratches adorning her body, bruises and bitemarks covering her chest and neck, her eyes puffy and swollen. 

“Lucius…” she struggled to her feet, pulling the blankets around her. They hesitated for a moment before embracing, Magnus practically falling into his arms. “It hurts … so much.”

“I know,” he lifted her into the bed as if she were a child, “It’s all right now, don’t cry.”

But she couldn’t help the tears that fell down her face, Lucius’ touch was so gentle and kind in contrast to the cruel grip of - 

She wouldn’t allow herself to think about him. She couldn’t. The thought of his body made her convulse, she felt sick to her stomach. In that moment, Magus realised that she would do anything to avoid that feeling again. She would tear down entire armies to avoid lying with that monster.

The way this war was going, she might have to.

“Mags?” Lucius was looking at her, concern and guilt pooling in his eyes, “Is there anything I can do? To help, I mean.” He sounded so unsure, so scared. Oh, what she would give to walk away from all of this, to go somewhere high in the mountains and never return. She could never take them all with her, she couldn’t protect everyone. The only way they would all be safe was if Voldemort were dead. 

“Stay with me, please, Lucius. I don’t want to be alone -” she choked and buried her face in his chest. Shushing her, he lay down beside her shaking body and let her cry into his arms. His hand drifted over her shoulder, gently soothing the reddened flesh. He would stay with her till she fell asleep, but fear of the Dark Lord’s return kept him glancing at the door, terrified of the reparations if they were caught together. “It’s all right, shhh. Daddy’s here.”

Comforted by his presence, Magnus’ breathing slowed as she gradually began to succumb to the numbing embrace of sleep. Her eyelids grew heavy with exhaustion, body worn out by the last few brutal hours. The darkness seemed to wrap her up in its velvety cloak, and she was all too eager to escape the light for the briefest of moments, knowing that the waking hours were the ones that brought the most dangers. Darkness was an old friend at this point, and she welcomed the ignorance that sleep brought.

But dreams, on the other hand, waited for her with bared teeth. The claws were out, and the memories she had been suppressing were about to come flooding back, riding on a wave of fear.

…

Through the darkness and gloom, she could make out flickering images, as if she were watching herself on an ancient projector. It seemed like someone was gradually turning up the quality of the image, even though the last thing she wanted was to look at the pitiful scene before her...

She was walking up the staircase, hand ghosting over the twisted wood, his hand on her shoulder.

He was pushing open the door, and she could feel his fingers resting on the small of her back, almost giddy with the illusion of tenderness.

She was being held against the wall, his knee between her legs, and his mouth hot on her neck.

He was stroking her arm, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he tore at her shirt. In the haze before her, he looked almost human, and she could pretend the man whose lips were locked on hers was Lucius, or even Severus, she was so desperate for a semblance of normality.

And then everything sped up, and instead of the blissful glow of the Binding, all she could feel was the bites on her chest and the claw marks on her back. He was standing over her, chest heaving with exertion, practically drooling with desire.

“Aren’t you a pretty little thing? So desperate for your master to take you, so wanton and lustful,” his eyes were blown open, and she backed into the wall, desperate to get some space between them, “Come now my dear, don’t be shy. I won’t hurt you.”

They both knew that was a lie.

With the strength of a creature born from the shadows, he slammed her into the stone, one hand creeping up her thigh, the other tightening around her neck. He so loved to feel her gasping for air, her throat so tender beneath his touch, as if one clench of his fist could crush her windpipe. “Kiss me,” he groaned, “kiss me or this will hurt a lot more than it needs to.” Her chest heaved with terror, but the sacrifice was necessary. If she gave him enough pleasure now, she could avoid future pain for both herself and her loved ones. The agony of being taken by such a monster was unavoidable, what she could control was the amount of pain she had to endure. There were some benefits to her situation.

“Yes, my lord -” his grip tightened warningly. “Yes … master.”

“Good girl.”

Picturing Lucius in her mind’s eye, she gave herself over to him and melted into his touch. Their lips met and suddenly his hand was on her hip, teasing the elastic of her underwear, her skirt useless to deter his advances. Planting sloppy kisses on her neck, he bit down on her collarbone, earning a slight moan of pain from her lips. Thinking it was a sound of pleasure, he was spurred on by the idea of her underneath him, face flushed with rapture. She was his, all his.

Releasing her neck for a moment, he ripped at her shirt collar before pausing, pleasantly surprised as she began to unbutton it herself. Slipping out of the fabric, she was left in Narcissa’s bra, skin already bruising with his efforts, goosebumps forming where the cold air brushed over her chest. He grinned, then returned his attention to her neck, biting down hard and marking her. Gently, with a mockery of romance, he reached around and unhooked the bra, releasing her breasts from the thin material. 

Once her bra was off, Magnus felt his gaze more keenly than before. He was almost completely still, staring at her topless figure. His hand drifted from her neck to her chest before he seemed to regain his composure and look to her expectantly. She let her skirt fall to the floor, although it had done little to protect her, and made as if to step towards him. Suddenly, he was on her again, the brief respite gone in an instant. 

His hand was squeezing her breast, and she gritted her teeth, trying to focus on the pleasure instead of the stinging pain of the bitemarks that adorned her neck. Lowering his head to her collarbone, and lower still, his tongue flicked out and ghosted over her skin, the odd sensuality of his touch mingling with the disgust that pooled in her belly. Remembering herself, she arched her back and moaned with mock rapture, making sure to seem utterly within his control. As if he sensed her disquiet, he bit down sharply on the soft skin of her breast, piercing the skin. A shocked yelp of pain rewarded him, and he ran his tongue over the wound, delighting in the metallic tang of blood. Deep in his gut, desire stirred and he felt young again.

As he licked and nipped at her chest, forcing moans and yelps from her lungs, his hands roamed all over her body. Dipping his fingers under the waistband of her underwear, the Dark Lord rejoiced in the squirming and arching of her back. He slipped a finger beneath the fabric, and deeper still, this time earning a breathy groan that was entirely real. With a cruel twist, he forced another finger inside her, and she grasped at his hand in pain. Using his magic for the first time that evening, he summoned ribboning ropes to his side and bound her wrists behind her, grinning as he did so.

Like a cobra from its basket, he raised his head so he could stare into her eyes, caging her beneath him with one hand above her head, resting on the wall. His other was at work below her, fingers twisting and curling with little regard for comfort or pleasure. All he wanted was to extract those little breathy gasps from her sweet lips, and he cared not how he got them.

“Give in to me,” he growled, “give yourself over to me.”

So she did.

They were on the bed, although she couldn’t remember how they got there, and he was above her, fingers curling into her cunt. There were three now, or maybe four, and the stinging pain of being stretched open had become unbearable, but there was no resisting him. Her hands were bound above her head with soft ropes, and his lips were all-consuming, they seemed to swallow her up.

He groaned, his chest rumbling and setting her heart pounding with fear. He seemed impatient, and she prayed that he wasn’t about to do what she thought he was. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and she arched her back in part-agony, part-ecstasy, a cry forming on her lips, silenced only by his kiss. 

“Good girl, cum for your master.”

Magnus convulsed, pleasure rippling through her body. It seemed as if ecstasy was coursing through her veins as she clawed at the blankets and moaned into his lips, his tongue hot on the inside of her mouth. “Master!” she groaned as his hand found her breast, caressing her with fake tenderness. This added pleasure sent her spiralling into another fit of shaking, moaning with wanton desire as the sensation of his fingers inside her sparked her brain into madness. She was so full, so full of him, and it felt like she was being reborn.

Once the trembling subsided, she leaned into his touch, unknowingly thanking him for her pleasure. She must have seemed surprised by her own body, and he answered her silent question with a sinister grin, “The Binding forces you to obey me absolutely. There is nothing I can’t make you do.” His smile made her stomach weak with terror.


	11. A New Kind of Pain

A New Kind of Pain

Another memory shifted into her head, and she shied away from it, knowing it to be one of the more pungent and painful. However, this was the realm of her subconscious, and she had no power here.

Silently begging Lucius to pull her out of her dreams, she tried to lift her head, but the potent mixture of dark magic and the coupling between her and the Dark Lord meant that her body rejected any attempt at waking. She felt as if her mind was taunting her, sucking her down into a pit of darkness where memories lurked, teeth bared.

The gloom seemed to swallow her up, and she gave in to its numbing blackness… 

This memory must have taken place shortly after the last, and she was completely naked, clothes lying discarded on the floor. The torn fabric reminded her of the scratch marks that decorated her torso, mingling with the dark runes of the Binding.

A face was above her, twisted with cruelty, eyes dilated and lips curled. Features blurred in the fog of her mind, slowly coming into focus. Snapping back into reality, she was all too aware of the fire burning in her flesh, the unbearable pain between her legs sent sparks flashing before her eyes. A scream tore from her lips, and she tore uselessly at the restraints that had been fastened with malicious strength.

He was inside her, and the agony was unendurable. Hissing with pleasure, making her body shake with his animalistic thrusts, Voldemort grinned sadistically. Feeling her convulse around him, he slowed down briefly to stroke her face, sweat beading on her brow. “Pretty little thing, taking your Master so well…” he groaned and bit his lip as rapture coursed through his veins, “... tell me how good it feels, little one, tell your Master what he does to you…”

The strength of the Binding gripped her, and she found herself moaning at his touch, almost crying with bliss, answering his commands with whimpers of her own, “Take me, Master, take me please! You feel so good inside me, please -” She choked on her words as he slammed into her once more, the desire quickly fading once his orders were fulfilled, and the returning pain would have sent her mad were it not for the knowledge that this too would come to an end. She felt like begging, like pleading with him for a respite, but she knew any attempt to sway him would only lead to senseless violence. He would probably enjoy this gruesome coupling even more if she began to beg. Although he knew she was in pain, he took pleasure as she struggled with the urge to cry, the need for a cessation of pain battling with the power of the Binding and the stubborn pride instilled in her.

In all her years of training, of resisting torture and hurt, she had never experienced anything like this. He was a new kind of pain, one for which she was totally unprepared. Fear made her desperate, and she yanked at the ropes that bound her wrists.

But Voldemort noticed her tugging at the restraints. Leaning down to eye level, he glared at her, barely slowing his tireless pace, “Stop struggling, girl, be thankful for my touch…” His tongue flicked out and tasted the air, and he yearned for her to return his passion, “... beg me for your release, beg me to fuck you like the whore you are.”

Washing over her, she felt the numbing pain of the Binding once more, and her body became still and useless, muscles slacking at his orders. Eyes rolling back in her head, desire flowing like ambrosia, Magnus arched her back with a breathy moan. She managed to gasp out, “Th-thank you, Master, thank you -” before he silenced her with a burning kiss. Rolling her hips, leaning into his lips, she opened her mouth and let him take control once more. The spell made her mind haze over, and she felt safe in his arms, safe beneath him, safe with his fingers dancing over her ribs and his lips on hers. Caged beneath him, she used her wings to push herself closer to his body, desperate for his skin on hers. She was to be disappointed, as power compelled him to remain fully robed, preferring the gleaming white of her naked body alone in his eyes. His robes flowed around their twining forms, and they seemed to meld together, becoming one macabre figure that bucked and rolled on the silk sheets.

“Is this not better,” he whispered, “than Malfoy’s pathetic touch?” 

She moaned in response, panting, breath hot on his lips, “Yes, Master -”

Still unsatisfied, he lifted her thighs and pushed himself yet deeper inside her hotness. “Is this not better,” he grinned at her desperate whines of pleasure, “than your meagre fantasies? My dear, how can a ghost of desire compare with your Master? How could you ever hope to be satisfied by a mortal’s lips?”

Alive with desire, cheeks flushed with rapture, body aching from his touch, she replied, “Nothing compares, Master, no one can have me. I am all yours - ” a spike of pleasure shot through her body, “ - thank you! Thank you for your touch.”

“Call me Master, little whore, beg me for my release,” the image of her filled with his seed sent the blood rushing to his head, “beg me to use your body -”

He swore as she convulsed around him, gritting his teeth as she gazed into his eyes and begged for his release. She was so perfect, so perfect.

“Please use me, Master, I am yours to use…”

She trailed off as he pushed himself further into her, mouth hanging open with pleasure. Groaning with lust, with cruel joy at breaking her, he felt his release rush through his body, the sensation of having her utterly in his control made his bones ache with rapture. Looking down at her prone body splayed out beneath him, he felt as if the world was in the palm of his hand, the power intoxicating.

Finally he spoke, “Well done, my dear,” he stroked her hair, “such a good girl for your Master.” Standing, he was about to leave her lying there, but something in her eyes made him pause for a moment. Something was happening to him, some new emotion that he hadn’t felt in an age. Yes, he was possessive, of that he was sure. He was adamant that no one else could have her, but something deep inside him needed her to feel the same way. She was looking at him, the Binding like cataracts in her pupils, but he sensed her desperate need for comfort. His lip twisted at the thought that she might get it from Severus, her oldest friend, instead of him. He wanted her to need him utterly, the way he needed her. Pausing, he fought with himself. Did he need her? Of course he desired her, her body was his toy to use, to take for pleasure, but did he need her mind as well? The first few months of their meeting, when he had invaded her dreams and tortured her with the fear of failure, he had seen something of himself in her. The same loneliness that lingered past childhood and into adolescence. She was an outsider in the world of magic, just like him. Did he need her like he craved power? He concluded that her body was an enjoyable advantage of the Binding, but that he was using her connection with the storm to further his own pursuit of supremacy. Voldemort tried to convince himself that her magic and body was the only attraction, yet he remained by the bed, eyes fixed on her.

With a swirl of his robes, he lifted her from the sheets, carrying her over to the chair that stood, almost throne-like, in the corner. “My lord?” she seemed even more scared than before as he sat, pulling her onto his lap as if she weighed no more than the feathers on her back.

“Be silent,” his own voice was barely more than a whisper, “let your Master take care of you now.” He ran his hand down her back, feeling her muscles twist beneath his touch, careful to avoid the tender patches where his nails had dug into the skin. Was that regret that lingered in his eyes? Were his fingers gentle with care, or was her mind simply searching for any humanity in this heartless place? Summoning magic to his hand, he soothed her aching skin and brushed away the red marks, leaving the bites clear on her back. He wanted everyone to know that she was his.

Suddenly very aware of her nakedness, she made as if to draw her wings about her and shrink away from him. Venom clutched at his heart, but he pushed it down. She had endured enough punishment for today, and he would excuse her for this simple act of self-consciousness. “Don’t.” he simply whispered, “Don’t hide your body from me.”

“I’m sorry, Master,” a tear fell down her face, “I won’t do it again.” How desperately she wanted the earth to swallow her up, to free her from this man’s touch. Nestled here, in his lap, so many words unspoken, thoughts hanging in the air, she knew their time together was not nearly over. He wanted more of her, more of her body. So much violence had she endured, that it never crossed her mind that his sudden tenderness might be a product of care, rather than yet more lust.

He watched the tear fall. Watched it glisten on her cheek and leave a trail of silver on her skin. He curled his hand behind her head and turned her so that he could reach her mouth. Lowering his head slightly, he kissed the patch on her face, tongue soft on her cheek. It was the first genuinely tender act he had displayed since the Binding. The gesture made her heart dance in her chest, wishing that she could experience gentleness like this without the constant pain between her legs. She reminded herself of what he had done to her. Monster, murderer.

“Come now, little one, don’t be so harsh,” as if he had read her mind - and he had - he kissed her again, “I’m not all that bad.” His lips were tender, and so gentle that she almost forgot what he could do. Not knowing if it was the Binding that compelled her, or if something had finally broken inside her, she leaned into him and kissed him back. She felt his hand pressing into the small of her back, the other stroking her side, palm warm on her waist. He shifted so that her legs were open, and - for lack of a better word - straddling his own. Letting him take control, knowing that was what he wanted, she pressed her body into his, feeling his legs shift beneath her. “Oh, good girl,” he groaned, “come closer, pet.”

Twisting her hands in his robes, she rolled her hips and curled into his chest, mouth open and hot for his own. Her fingers found his chest, the skin foreign and cold, but he so loved it when she touched him, he could almost delude himself into thinking she was doing it willingly. Was she? In the confusion and heat of his arms, she didn’t know what she wanted, didn’t know how far she would go to please him.

And then his fingers found her heat, slipped inside her and tore a gasp of pleasure from her lips. Eyes closed, pushed shut with fear and rapture, she felt his mouth twist into a smile. She was enjoying this, he thought, good. Let her.

This was her reward.

And what a reward it was, his thumb found her clit and danced over the pink flesh, fingers scissoring inside her. She bucked and moaned into his mouth, feeling his hand close around her neck, but this time it was affectionate, and the slight pressure on her windpipe made her shiver. With a slight twist, he found her weak spot. A cry of ecstasy filled the room as she arched her back and groaned at his touch.

Desire tore at him. Still unsatisfied with the meagre pleasure of her lips, he lifted her once more and swept his robes aside, letting her fall back onto him.

Her eyes shot open as he did so, and suddenly she was full, so full, and the pleasure was insane. Unlike before, her slickness made the experience easier, and she could take him more easily. “Master -” she gasped, “yes!” 

Joining her cries of rapture, he praised her for being so willing. “Such an eager whore, so good -” he groaned, “taking me so well…” His hands were on her hips, lifting her up and down, letting her grind onto him, but careful to keep himself dictating the pace. He was in control, and she was only enjoying this because he allowed it. His mood could change at any moment.

Her vision blurred and the memory began to fade. Beginning to feel the waking world on the tips of her fingers, she cast one final look at the figures on the chair, vowing to never again be that powerless, that useless to fight against him. To be so utterly at his mercy, so open to his needs, nothing more than a toy to use… she could never go back.

It would destroy her.


	12. A Rude Awakening

A Rude Awakening

With a start, a shiver of disgust, she woke to the familiar musty scent of Lucius’ leather waistcoat. His hand was gently stroking her hair, untangling the matted knots and massaging the lumps and bruises on her neck. 

“Where’s Severus?” her voice seemed more befitting of a funeral, low and hoarse, as if every word pained her. He wondered what had greeted her in the realm of sleep, what memories had resurfaced and left her face pallid and drawn.

He shifted beside her, the bed creaking slightly, “He left with Bellatrix and the Dark Lord.” Lucius sounded disappointed that his presence wasn’t enough to comfort the girl in his arms, although he supposed he didn’t deserve her trust after allowing Voldemort to use her like a plaything, a toy for his amusement. He had utterly abandoned her, yet he felt himself needing her to need him back.

Ignoring her racing thoughts, Magnus mustered the strength to face Lucius, rolling onto her side. “When will he be back? You don’t think something will happen to him?”

He chuckled. “I doubt it. That man knows how to survive, he has more sense than I do, although that doesn’t take much.” An attempt at humour was rare for the silver-haired man, but he had to try, for the girl’s sake.

A smile danced on her lips, “Yes, I suppose neither of us have great survival instincts. Else we wouldn’t be here.”

Quiet laughter filled the room, as if both were afraid to show any sign of happiness, as if the house itself would turn on them if they seemed anything but afraid. Curling into his side, Magnus grinned up at him, as things were almost as they were before. Almost. He was struck by how bright her eyes were, despite the events of the night before. He was reminded of how she had looked at him all those weeks ago, when they had shared a forbidden kiss in front of the window, sun hanging low in the sky. Her hair had seemed crimson in the light, and the sunlight had streamed through her wings.

He was eager to keep her talking, to try and regain any trust she may have had in him.

“True. And I don’t know when he’ll be back. The Dark Lord’s mind is a mystery to all.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. Mentioning Voldemort brought back the old sickness, the decay and rot that followed his name swept back into the room, sending the timid laughter skittering back into the shadows. Turning away, Magnus sat on the side of the bed, legs dangling into the blackness below.

Pathetic, miserable with his mistake, Lucius lifted his arm to rest on her shoulder, silver rings cold on her pale skin.

“I’m sorry.”

Staring at the floor beneath her feet, Magnus shook her head. “It’s alright. I’ll be alright.” With a sigh, she ran her fingers through her hair, opening up her ribcage in an attempt to ease the knot in her lungs. Since she had woken there had been an uncomfortable ache in the centre of her chest, as if Voldemort’s departure had left her bereft. She sensed that this yearning that sat heavy in her heart would only be eased with his presence, such was the power of the Binding.

“Are you sure? Do you want me to leave?” Lucius sounded so afraid. She wondered what he had to fear, it wasn’t as if he was enslaved to that monster, not like her. Shaking the thought off, she mentally reprimanded herself. He was just trying to do the right thing, he was as much trapped as she was, raised in a family of pureblood fanatics, taught that bloodlines alone could determine supremacy. He was a prisoner of tradition, and he had to protect his family from the consequences of his forbearers. 

Trying to expel any thoughts of Voldemort from her mind, she choked out a few shaky words. “No, no, I’m fine. Seriously. I just need a moment…” Digging her fingernails into the soft fleshy parts of her thighs, attempting to focus on this small pain instead of the larger agony that brimmed inside her, she fought back tears, desperate to be strong. Lucius had sat up behind her, and now rested his head on her shoulder so that her back was pressed against his chest. Tugging her hands away from her lap, away from the scratch marks on her legs, he wrapped his arms around her waist, cradling her into his body. 

Tenderly, as if she would break, he pressed his lips to her neck, “There, there,” he whispered, “he’s not here, you’re safe.”

Oh, how she longed to give in to his lips, to let him kiss away her pain. 

“You had better stop, he’ll be furious if he finds that you’ve touched me.”

His lips were remarkably soft, and all she wanted was to meet them with her own, to let the sensation of his body wash away the lingering scent of Voldemort’s skin.

Lucius was so close, so close to taking her in his arms and drowning her with his touch. He wanted to drink her up, to keep her next to him forever. “Well, if I can’t touch you, at least let me talk. Let me tell you all that I feel…”

She almost laughed, the situation was so bizarre. Desperation clawed at her heart, and she almost gave in.

“No, Lucius. I can’t do this.” he withdrew, surprised.

“Why ever not, my dear? No one’s around.”

With a whirl of feathers, she sprang to her feet, glaring at him. “Have you lost your damn mind? Do you think he doesn’t know, he knows everything, or do you just not care if he finds out?” She could feel the room shifting, the floor unsteady beneath her feet. “Of course the consequences wouldn’t be too extreme for you, he’d probably let you off with a light warning! But for me - do you hear - the punishment would be horrific.”

Trying to get her back into the bed, Lucius grabbed at her wrists, “Magnus, please -”

“Is that all I am to you? Another conquest, another whore to fuck?!” she was close to screaming, panicked by the fear of Voldemort’s wrath. “He’ll kill me, he’ll -” she choked on her terror, “The things he’ll do to me, you have no idea -”

And she was falling, falling down a pit of darkness. Far in the distance, someone was crying her name.


	13. Sitting Among Demons

Sitting Among Demons

Like a bat out of hell, a dark cloud swept across the night sky, twisting and turning as if being eaten alive from the inside out. Severus had become a mist of swirling pitch as he flew towards Malfoy Manor, eyes fixed on his destination. There was fear in his gaze, yes, but also a glint of eagerness, for this was to be the first time he had seen Magnus in over a month. They had said their goodbyes in the brief time that was allowed to them, embracing in the ornate doorway of the main hall, but he had forced himself not to look back as he began the long journey to Hogwarts. Since the Ministry had fallen, he had found himself spending more and more time attending to the care of his students, as for many, Hogwarts was their only home, their families forced into hiding or servitude as the world teetered on the edge of all-out war. Soon, the Dark Lord would reveal himself to the Muggles, and then carnage would reign supreme.

Until that time, he devoted himself to teaching, throwing himself into his old profession with a fervor born of the knowledge that any day could be his last. Like Magnus, like the rest of the world, he had become entirely dependent on Voldemort’s whims, an asset that could be thrown away at a moment’s notice. One foul mood, one lost battle was all it took for his life to be snatched away from him. He had seen it done before. Death lingered in every corner, waiting for him to make a mistake.

And this was to be perhaps his greatest mistake. Despite all the dangers surrounding Magnus, he still cared for her as if she were his own. Perhaps it was the guilt of her father’s death that kept him tied to her, or maybe he wasn’t prepared to throw away their friendship for a few moments languishing in the Dark Lord’s good graces.

No matter, no matter, he would do his best to protect her where he could, but she had survived thus far without his help, maybe she was finally learning how to keep her master’s favour.

With a whoomph of fabric, he landed on the gravel path that led up to the Manor. He followed the winding boulevard as he had done so many times before, wincing at the memory of his last visit, when he had found Magnus with a knife in her back and blood on her teeth. Severus hoped she had acquired no new scars to add to her already impressive collection.

…

His shoes clacking on the marbled floor, Severus swept up the ancient stone stairs that led up to the main hall, cape billowing out behind him. 

He came to a dead stop.

Before him, laid out like a twisted version of the Nativity, was the Inner Circle, Voldemort at the head of the table, nostrils flaring on his serpentine face, with Magnus beside him, slumped with her head in her hands, trying not to look at the broken figure that hung behind Pius. She looked like a broken doll, her silhouette odd and shattered without her limbs. Charity, his friend. No - he shook himself - she was a Muggle sympathiser, she wasn’t deserving of his friendship - 

Yet in those few seconds before he was noticed, before the gleaming eyes of Voldemort were upon him, his mind raced with memories. Charity loved herbal tea, he remembered, and ginger chocolate. She was never seen without a woollen cardigan or scarf that she had probably knitted herself. Now, in a macabre turn of events, the sleeves of her jumper dangled uselessly around the stumps of her arms.

“Severus.” With a crackle like that of dead leaves, the ghostly voice broke through the fog of his mind that had been almost overcome with anguish. “I was beginning to worry you’d lost your way. Come, we’ve saved you a seat.”

At the mention of his name, Magnus’ head shot up and they locked eyes for half a second. She had been crying, cheeks streaked with tears. But, of course, Charity was like a mother to her, especially in lieu of knowing who her birth mother was. Had been - he reminded himself - Charity was as good as dead.

Hesitating only for a moment, Severus made his way over to the oak table, towards the empty chair that awaited him. It felt as if he was walking to the guillotine, stepping willingly towards his own execution. Sitting with forced politeness, hands clasped before him, he risked a glance towards the girl at Voldemort’s side, but she had curled back into herself, hands covering her face, hiding her expression from him.

“You bring news, I trust.” The Dark Lord drew his attention away from Magnus, reminding him of the task at hand. He had a part to play, they both did.

Gathering himself, forcing the tremor in his voice back down his throat, Severus finally spoke. “It will happen Saturday next, at nightfall.”

“I’ve heard differently, my lord.” That idiot Yaxley. Always poking his nose in where it didn’t belong, almost eager to butt in, desperate for an opportunity to one-up Snape, hungry for the opportunity to usurp him, replace him in the Dark Lord’s favour. “Dawlish the Auror has let slip that the Potter boy will not be moved until the thirtieth of this month, the day before he turns 17 -”

Interrupting him, resisting the urge to grin at the pathetic little man, Severus regained the upper hand. “This is a false trail.” Allowing a pause for his words to sink in, ensuring he had the full attention of everyone in the room, he continued, “The Auror office no longer plays any part in the protection of Harry Potter.” Yaxley played with his fingers, avoiding his gaze, Snape turned back to the Dark Lord. “Those closest to him believe we have infiltrated the Ministry.”

“Well,” a raspy chuckle broke through the tension, “They’ve got that right then, haven’t they.” 

A bubble of laughter broke out among the assembled Death Eaters, Magnus would have called it a congregation were it not for the lack of anything holy or sacred. After all, the devil sat among them, his demons at his side. 

“What say you, Pius?” Voldemort shifted his gaze from watching Magnus attempt a smile, and she relaxed in the sudden absence of his piercing eyes. His gleaming head was almost angelic in the lamplight, a mockery of a halo.

The thin man opposite this false angel shifted uncomfortably, all too aware of Nagini’s slick scales that shifted on the floor beside him.

“One hears many things, my lord,” he paused, choosing his words delicately, “whether the truth is among them is not clear.”

With a laugh of derision, that sent shivers dancing down Magnus’ spine, setting her feathers shaking, Voldemort smirked, “Spoken like a true politician. You will, I think, prove most useful, Pius.”

She grimaced, remembering how he had once said those same words to her, whispering praises in the dead of night as he tormented her dreams with visions. He had been so persuasive, so self-assured that she would turn to him. It was only natural that her fear of her own father would push her into his enemy’s arms. How different things might have been, had Dumbledore treated her like a human being, rather than an asset, a weapon to be utilised against the forces of darkness that she had now joined.

Similar thoughts ran through Pius’ head, wondering how his life could have changed if he had been born to a different family, followed a different career. The whole room stank of regret and terror. Voldemort’s voice had become dangerously low, reminding everyone of their roles as his vassals, his property. They were all his weapons, his property, some more permanently than others.

The corner of Pius’ mouth twitched as he withered beneath the Dark Lord’s stare, trying and failing to think of an appropriate answer, unable to even muster a smile, such was the fear he lived in. Silence was a much safer option, the one that was least likely to get him killed.

In these dark times, no one was indispensable.

Turning his eyes from the pathetic sight before him, Voldemort’s voice ghosted through the company. “Where will he be taken, the boy?”

“To a safe house,” Severus once more took the full brunt of the Dark Lord’s attention, “most likely the home of someone in the Order. I’m told it’s been given every manner of protection possible. Once there, it will be impractical to attack him.”

Smart man, thought Magnus, avoiding the taboo of impossibility, darting away from the implication that the meagre spells of the Order would be enough to deter the might of the Dark Wizard. Yes, a smart man, using his diplomacy to avoid Voldemort’s wrath. Impractical indeed.

Clearing her throat, Bellatrix leaned forward in her chair, tangled hair falling before her eyes, teeth bared with almost tangible desire. With an air of irritation, Voldemort shifted his gaze over to her. “My lord,” her voice was rusty, worn out from years of screaming at the walls of Azkaban, “I’d like to volunteer myself for this task.” And as if her intent wasn’t clear enough, she spoke again, lacing her words with an almost sultry air, “I want to kill the boy…” She trailed off, her voice disappearing as she dreamt of murder and pain.

A howl of agony split the air, Ollivander no doubt, a familiar sound in this house, which often resonated with the cries of the damned. Charity’s shrieks still lingered in the musty air. Magnus was glad at least that it wasn’t Remus down in that cellar, emptying his lungs into the night. True to his word, Voldemort had let him go soon after the Binding, but had denied Magnus any form of parting, leaving her bereft of human comfort. He was to be her only comfort.

“Wormtail!” She clenched her fists in terror, trying not to flinch at his voice. He rarely yelled, rarely raised his voice in anger, so this sudden outburst made her dig her fingernails into her palms and bite her tongue. “Have I not spoken to you about keeping our guest quiet?”

Guest. Oh, the irony. Magnus remembered that previous conversation, the silent fury of Voldemort as he flung curse after curse at Wormtail’s retreating figure, scurrying away down the cellar stairs. Ollivander had borne the brunt of the rat-like man’s anger, and while he had remained quiet, enduring the torture with mute screams, Magnus was certain that had he been able to, his cries of pain would have filled the whole house.

Pettigrew flinched at the memory, the last time he had failed his master, and shivered in the icy glare of the Dark Lord. “Y-yes, my lord. Right away, m-my lord.” Without a backwards glance, eager to escape the room, he fled towards the cellar, feet pattering on the floorboards.

Magnus watched him go, wincing at the sudden quiet of the room. She risked a glance at Severus who sat with almost lordly composure, hands clasped on the table. How she missed his hands, worn with years of chopping roots and brewing potions. How she missed his gentle touch, how soft it seemed beside the cruel grasp of her Master, the monster sitting beside her.

As if he sensed her thoughts were upon him, he reached over and brushed the hair from her face, stroking her cheek to comfort her after his outburst. He didn’t like to see her flinch away from him, and this was the first time he had lost his temper in her presence since the Binding. Almost annoyed at himself for yelling, he turned back to Bellatrix.

“As inspiring as I find your bloodlust, Bellatrix,” his voice was soft with menace, “I must be the one to kill Harry Potter.”

Acquiescing, she shrank back into her chair, bowing her head in submission. A grin twitched on Magnus’ lips, it gave her great pleasure to see Bellatrix undermined, put back into her place. In her darker days, when the despair clutched at her heart and the ghosts of her past slouched in the corner of her eyes, she envied his power. He held the room in stranglehold, oh what she would give to hold such influence. If she was the one calling the shots, maybe it would be easier to kill the person she used to be. But no, she was trapped in this half-life, torn between morality and desire. It was like sitting among demons.

And this particular demon was set on having her, and for the last month he had succeeded.

Gripping the Elder Wand with a slight flick, the Dark Lord summoned the motionless figure hanging in the air towards him. The woman let out a slight moan of pain, head dangling helplessly above the table as her hair dragged on the back of Pius’ chair.

“To those of you who do not know, we are joined tonight by Miss Charity Burbage,” Severus met her gaze, silently signalling to keep her emotions in check with a slight shake of his head, “who, until recently, taught at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

Magnus sunk into her seat, kneading the sides of the chair as if it were possible to free Charity through anger alone. Despite Severus’ warning, her face was twisted in anguish.

“Her speciality,” he continued, disgust palpable in his tone, “was Muggle Studies.” 

A pureblood at the far end of the table laughed with barely contained loathing, and a few others cackled along with her, some feigning revulsion, but for most it was entirely real. Magnus bit her tongue, always unsure of how to react to their pureblood mania. Her father was halfblood, she knew that much, but the lack of any information about her mother’s blood- tatus left her bereft. Mentally calculating, she concluded that at best, she was three-quarters magical. At worst, in the face of the possibility of a Muggle mother, she would fall into the dangerous category of more Muggle than magical. Even half-blood status was risky these days, and to be only a quarter magical was akin to a death sentence.

The irony of her Master’s blood status was not lost to her, and neither was Severus’. Those who held the most revulsion for Muggles were so often the ones who were most like them. Personally, she liked the Muggle world, and many of her close friends from Hogwarts had been muggleborn. How did she get here, surrounded by racists and fanatics?

“It is Miss Burbage’s belief that Muggles,” he paused to let his words sink in, savouring the sway he held over those gathered, “are not so different from us.” 

Magnus sucked in a breath. She had enjoyed Charity’s lessons, finding them a refreshing break from the constant nagging of Draco and his friends, going on and on about the purity of magical blood. She and Charity had shared so many views, and even once Magnus had graduated, she found herself gravitating towards the department for Muggle studies at Hogwarts, spending hours debating about the non-magical world that so fascinated her.

Hearing her sudden gasp, Voldemort turned to face her, ensuring that his next words were directed at the girl beside him. 

“She would, given her way,” he grimaced, “have us mate with them.”

Bellatrix let out an overzealous retch, pretending to gag on the taste of non-magical blood. The rest of the room joined in with exclamations of their own.

“To her, the mixture of magical and Muggle blood is not an abomination, but something to be encouraged.”

Magnus rolled her eyes. As if most of the people in this room weren’t half-blood or some other concoction. Even the most fanatical of them all couldn’t claim pureblood status, his father remaining a blot on his family tree. And as for the dig about ‘mating’ with Muggles, that was pathetically low. Her relationship with that girl had happened so long ago, it was practically ancient history, and besides, she knew for a fact that, in his youth, Voldemort had branched out into some more … interesting … areas of experimentation. Mating with Muggles indeed. Pot calling kettle black.

The thought of her made Magnus’ heart ache. How she missed those days, sneaking out at night with Fred and George to go drinking in the nearby Muggle village. She had been pissed when she found out they had given away the Marauders’ Map to Harry, it would have been perfect for that sort of thing.

Fred and George and their little shop in Diagon Alley. It was, no doubt, closed by now, or had been burnt to the ground by Death Eaters. They were - had been - her friends. How times had changed.

“Severus… Severus please…” 

The shaky, laden voice of her old teacher woke her, and Magnus was once more thrown back into the world of monsters.

Voldemort followed her gaze, as everyone did, and his eyes latched onto Snape who sat there motionless. Expressionless. How did he do it? How could he sit there while his friend suffered.

Well, that’s what she was doing. Coward.

“We’re friends...”

Severus remained still, looking at the shell of Charity Burbage. There was nothing he could have done.

Magnus heard his silence, and her heart broke.

Taking a shaky breath, she opened her mouth and let the words fall out, knowing that her pleas would fall on deaf ears. “My lord…” 

The room was suddenly cold, colder than a morgue, colder than the man who now looked at her with his dead, dead eyes.

Close to tears, holding her bravery in her heart, clinging onto what she thought was right, she continued, “My lord. Has she not suffered enough?” Magnus paused, preparing herself to ask for the impossible, “Does she really have to die?”

Voldemort chuckled, a low, mirthless noise that reminded her of nails on a chalkboard, of the scratching on the lids of coffins. It sounded like a death sentence.

“Little one, why should she live?”

She furrowed her brow. “My lord?”

“Is it not a mercy killing, or would you rather I let her lie there, a broken thing?” He laughed again, echoed by the rest of the room. Severus grimaced, and resisted the urge to hang his head in despair. This futile attempt to save Charity would achieve nothing.

The Dark Lord stood with a flourish of his robes, “Your empathy commends you, my dear,” his voice was laced with sarcasm, “but it will not get you very far.”

He took the few steps to her chair, towering over her. Magnus shrunk back into the leather of her seat, trying and failing to keep eye contact. She felt his hand close around her jaw as he twisted her face up to his, leaning down so that his mouth was beside her ear, brushing aside her hair as he did so.

“Either I kill her, or you do,” his voice was quiet enough to be menacing, but in the dead silence of the Manor, even Pius at the other end of the table could hear his words, “your choice.”

Her heart, which had been pounding in her chest as if it would break out of her ribs at any moment, was suddenly still and quiet. All she could hear was her own laboured breathing and the soft sobs of Charity. That wasn’t quite true. She could also hear the slither of Nagini’s scales against the floorboards as the snake slipped towards her, coiling at Voldemort’s feet.

His grip against her jaw tightened. 

Tears formed in her eyes and spilled over onto her cheeks; there was no way she could kill Charity, but she couldn’t watch it happen either. Lifting her hand to meet his, she tore her gaze from the woman before her, “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

She didn’t know who she was apologising to, but she felt something deep inside her crack in half. Coward. Pathetic.

His grin at her surrender made it all that much worse. This was the man she was bound to, this thing that held her face in his grip and laughed at the suffering of others. 

Slipping from his grasp, not bold enough to push him away, she slammed the chair backwards and fled from the room, his laughter chasing her out into the porch. 

She slumped onto the ground, hearing the door thud closed behind her. The wall at her back was bitingly cold, the winter air piercing her flesh as the wind howled through her hair. At this time of night, the garden was pitch black, and seemed to swallow her up. Turning away from the darkness that threatened to engulf her, she curled into the musty bricks beside the main entrance, just below the ornate window that looked in on the room she had just fled.

A flash of green light and the crunch of bone. That was all that was left of Charity Burbage.

Magnus heard the slam of teeth on flesh as Nagini tore at the corpse on the table, and all she could think of was how detestable her actions were. Coward. Coward.

Clutching at her ears, trying to drown out the sound of ripping skin that swam in her head, she felt the disgust bubble up from her chest and pour from her throat in a stream of vomit, black and warm.

Staggering from the window, clawing blindly at the bushes around her, she fell to her knees.

Tracing the scars on her arms, on her back, her chest, anywhere she had been able to reach, she began to tear at the pale flesh once more.

Coward. Monster.

She deserved this pain. This was her reward.

“Mercy!” she howled at the sky, thunderclouds booming above her head, her bloodied figure illuminated by the crashes of lightning that split the sky.

“Mercy!” she screamed into the night, words forming on her lips that could never be spoken, agony boiling in the cage of her chest.

“Mercy -”

She choked. Crumpled. 

What else could she do but beg?


End file.
